Carnival
by Percentile
Summary: "Life may not be the party we hoped for, but while we're here, we should dance."
1. What The Fuck Is The Point Then?

It was all Wendy Testaburger's fault, Cartman was certain of that. Had they done what _he_ wanted, had their report been on Ingvar Kamprad, they would have got an A. But no, Wendy didn't want that, she wouldn't _allow_ that, Wendy refused to write a report on Kamprad. She demanded the report be on a businessman "with no fascist affiliations", because Wendy was unfair like that. In the end, she'd demanded the report would be on James Dyson. Cartman gritted his teeth; no-one gives a shit about James Dyson. No-one gives a shit about fucking _vacuum cleaners_. The only person who cares about shitting vaccum cleaners is his _mother_, and she uses a fucking _Henry Hoover_.

_Wendy_ told him the only reason they'd failed the report was because of Cartman's rant, Cartman's _declaration_ that the recession had been a Jewish conspiracy, that the Jews were trying to destroy America, destroy the economy, destroy the _world_. Wendy told him to stop spewing bullshit, s_he_ said that if he'd just shut his mouth they would have gotten an A. But Cartman couldn't shut his mouth, he couldn't just sit idly by when the Jews were rampaging on unstopped, needed to spread the word, raise an army. Everyone was blind, uneducated, everyone was in danger. And it was up to him to educate them, to _save _them. He needed to spread the word, to open everyone's eyes, to force them to see the true extend of the Jewish infestation. It was his duty to rid the world of vermin, his obligation. It was a job he'd do for the good of mankind.

And if Wendy had only let him do the report on Ingvar Kamprad, if she'd only let him finish his speech, of she'd only _open her eyes_, she'd _understand_ that. But no, she was too pig headed to see past her own stupid ego, and now she'd landed him in trouble with their business teacher. And, to make things worse, _she'd made him late for lunch_.

"Hrmph!"

Carman slammed himself down at the lunch table with such force Stan was sure it registered on the Richter scale. Crossing his arms, Cartman exhaled, crashing his elbows against the fake wooden tabletop. After a minutes silence, in which the entire table pointedly ignored him, Cartman frowned. Balling his fists, he repeatedly slammed them against the tabletop, succeeding in upturning everyone's drinks. Kenny just blinked at his upset milk carton, before sighing, dropping the crust of his bread onto the table.

"Something wrong, Eric?"

"No. Nothing's wrong. Everything's fine. _Everything's fine_!"

"Are you sure? Everything doesn't seem fine."

"Did you get stuck in your desk again?"

Cartman glared across the table. "Fuck you Kyle!"

Kyle didn't even bother looking up. He was too busy cleaning up his spilt Sprite, dabbing it off his jeans with Stan's napkin. Stan was just watching him, biting his lip in concern.

Kenny just sighed, dabbing up his milk with the sleeve of his jacket. "Well, what the hell _is_ wrong Eric?"

"Wendy!"

Kenny frowned. "What the hell has Wendy done?"

"I got an F! And detention! And it's all _her_ fault!"

"It wasn't her fault Cartman, it was your own stupid fault. If you'd just shut your fucking face you'd have been fine."

"It's not _my_ fault! If Wendy'd just let me do the report on Ingvar Kamprad everything would have been _fine_. But no! She was too busy getting wet over fucking vacuum cleaners!"

"I'm pretty sure you're the only one who uses vacuum cleaners for that Cartman."

"Why don't you do us all a favour and just go _die_, Kyle?"

"Whatever Cartman. I got an A for my report. I'm not the one failing business class."

"Yeah, well I would've gotten an A too Kyle! It's Wendy's fault I didn't! Ingvar Kamprad's a much better businessman then James-fucking-Dyson."

Kyle exhaled, absentmindedly dismantling his sandwich. "You should have just threatened to sit on her then; the idea of being jammed under your monstrous ass would've terrified her into submission."

"Ay! Watch your mouth Jew. It wouldn't kill you to loose a few pounds!"

"It _will_ kill you if you _don't_."

"Oh, you're just so fucking _witty_, aren't you kike?"

Kyle flushed, dropping his sandwich on the table, squaring off in anger. Quickly reaching up, Stan firmly gripped Kyle's shoulder, distracting his attention away from the fight, desperate to stop another repeat of all that shit. "C'mon dude, I want to go to the library."

Kyle raised his eyebrows. "_You_ want to go to the library?"

"Yeah, the _library_."

"Oh, the _library_. Yeah, c'mon then, let's go to the fucking _library_."

Kenny pulled a face, reaching across the table to tug Kyle's discarded sandwich onto his own tray. "What the fuck do you need to go to the library for? Jesus Stan, we had study period this morning."

Stan blinked, shouldering his bag. "SAT prep. You know, SAT's are coming up. You gotta be prepared for the SAT's Kenny."

"No, _you_ gotta be prepared for the SAT's. I gotta be prepared for the low, unsatisfying life of a blue-collar failure."

Rolling his eyes, Kyle just grabbed Stan's arm, unceremoniously pulling him out the door. Cartman glowered after them, hunching his bulking frame over the table, muttering obscenities under his breath. Pulling a face, Kenny just continued picking at his lunch, ignoring Cartman's rage. It was only when Cartman let out a particularly venomous grumble, pointedly elbowing him in the ribs that Kenny sighed, rubbing his hand across his face.

"Jesus, just let it go Eric! So what? You got an F. You should be used to it by now. This is hardly a new occurrence."

"That's not the point Kenny."

"Well what the fuck is the point then?"

"I _really could've_ gotten an A Kenny! If Wendy had just shut her fucking face and let _me_ do the report on Ingvar Kamprad, we would've gotten an A!"

"You _would've_ gotten an A if you'd just shut your stupid mouth. I would have thought you'd have been happy you didn't have to do any work. Fuck, you made it this far in your educational career freeloading off everyone else; I don't see what's so different about this."

"She's a _bitch_ Kenny."

"And the sky is blue. Try telling me something I don't know."

"She's so controlling! And _manipulative_!"

"You're controlling and manipulative."

"Yeah, but I'm cool. And _popular_. Wendy's just a _loser_. She's going to pay for this, Kenny."

"You screwed up your paper, you ruined all her hard work with a fascist rant, and _she's_ going to pay? Jesus Eric, you really do live in your own little world, don't you?"

"I'm going to destroy her Kenny. I'm going to make her _cry_."

Kenny raised his eyebrows, a slight smile quirkiness the corner of his lips. "Just be careful Eric, remember the last time you tried to make Wendy Testaburger cry?"

"Oh, _whatever_ Kenny! Like anybody gives a crap about what _you _think!"

* * *

><p>AN – Hola, been a whilewhile! Sorrysorry, am not dead, was just distracted for a while with ohchristmyfuck uniuni stuff. T'was awful.

Butbut is over now, so here is the short little prologue that prologues (prologuees? Precedes?) the last story in the whole _No-One Ever Said That Life Was Fair_ trilogy (I fell out with my other project, so decided to write this instead! Yay! Sort of!) So pretending Cartman, Kenny, Wendy, Stan and Kyle (the latter will have their own chapters, yesyesyup), finishing off this triad! Yay! Cough-candyfloss-cough.

And just in case you were wondering (and haven't got round to Googleing it) Ingvar Kamprad is a once-pro-Nazi (he's not now, not openly, not at all, I hope.) Swedish billionaire. He was the dude who founded IKEA! YupYupYup!


	2. Who Would You Swing For?

"So what's the plan, Eric? You gonna tell the teacher on her? Challenge her to a fight? Burn her house down? Plant drugs on her? Kill her pets? Give her HIV? Redecorate her walls with fecal matter? Throw Chili Con Carnival and feed her her parents?"

Cartman frowned, shovelling half a plateful of freshly acquired macaroni into his mouth. It had been standing in the service trays for a while now, and had successfully acquired the consistency of lukewarm PVA. Kenny winced with disgust, looking away. "I'm not sure yet, but I'll think of something. I'm a fucking business maverick. Bitch's going to pay for making me fail."

"You're not a business maverick Eric. You're just a retard with a flawed ideology."

"Fuck you Kenny! I fucking _run_ my own businesses! I'm a business genius! I make more money in a day then you poor ass family makes in a _year_! I could buy that disgusting fucking sour-milk shack you call home with the change in my back pocket!"

"Shut the fuck up Eric!"

"Or what, po'boy? You'll get you mom give me the herp? _Again_?"

Kenny gritted his teeth, pulling himself to his feet. "You know what? Fuck you Eric! I'm going to hang out with Stan and Kyle in the library!"

"Good! See if I care! Go disrupt their faggy little study group! Go piss them off! They won't thank you for it!"

For a second Kenny hesitated, before sitting back down, carefully unshouldering his frayed and torn rucksack. Stan and Kyle were always so fucking pissy when Kenny disrupted their precious study time. Personally he didn't see why he couldn't just join in too, but apparently he 'threw them off their game' or whatever. Cartman glanced across the table, snorting derisively as Kenny re-crossed his legs.

"So what's the plan then? You gonna feed her her parents?"

"No. No." A smirk was forming on Cartman's lips, cold and calculating. "I've got a better plan."

"Oh? What?"

"What does Wendy Testaburger care about more then anything in the world?"

"Breast cancer?"

"No, not breast cancer."

"Her parents?"

"No." Cartman was speaking though a mouthful of food. Cartman was always speaking though a mouthful of food. Kenny pointedly looked away.

"What, Stan then?"

"No! Not shitting Stan! Fuck Kenny!" Cartman shut his eyes, pausing for a moment, before drawing in a breath. "Wendy cares most about her _reputation _Kenny, about her position on the school council, about all her stupid Student Body Presedentship. I am going to take that all away from her. I'm going to impeach her, destroy her reputation, paint the hallways with her _darkest _secrets, carpet the classroom with her _shame_."

"I'm pretty sure Wendy cares far more about her patents and Stan then her position on the schools council Eric. I mean, Christ, you cause her to resign as Student Body President, like, every fucking _year_ over something stupid. You really should just let that go. I mean, I'm sorry, but no matter how hard you try, no-one's _ever_ going to vote you in, Eric. Not even Butters."

"Seriously, fuck you Kenny! This isn't about that!"

"Yeah, it is."

"No, it fucking _isn't_! It's about the business paper!"

"Whatever you say Eric."

For a moment Cartman just glowered across the table, shovelling forkfuls of food into his mouth with forceful rams. Blinking, Kenny just cleared his throat, still pointedly staring across the room. "How are you going to smear her though anyway? Wendy's a pretty virtuous person underneath the crust of bitch. Everyone already knows about the crust, and I think the only thing she's ever been ashamed of is kissing you that one time when we were eight. And everyone already knows about that too."

Shutting his eyes, slow and pained, Cartman shook his head patronisingly. "Well then I'll just have to find something, won't I Kenny? I'm an excellent sleuth, after all." Kenny snorted violently, covering his mouth with his hand to hide his smirk. Cartman just narrowed his eyes across the table again, shovelling another forkful of lunch into his mouth.

"What? I'd make a brilliant P.I. Kenny! Remember when I was that bounty hunter for a little bit? I was _awesome_ at that."

"You hired a whole fucking team and you were still barely mediocre. All you did was bear-mace everyone who sneezed in-between making ridiculous videos of yourself wearing a ridiculously hideous getup."

"Hey, I looked _buff_ dude! When you grow up, get hooked on weed and start committing crimes, when you skip bail, as you're destined to do, you can be damn sure _I'm _going to track you the fuck down and bring you the fuck in!"

"How the fuck do you expect to catch me once you've found me? All I'd have to do is _run away_, fuck, all I'd have to do is _walk briskly away_ and I'm in the clear. You get outpaced by _snails_, Eric."

"Fuck you Kenny."

"Only in your dreams, Eric."

"Whatever. This isn't about you Kenny. It's never about you. This is about getting revenge on Wendy."

"I still don't think you'll find anything Eric."

"I don't care what you think Kenny. It won't be too hard to find something smear-worthy out about Wendy. I mean, she's probably fucking Token or something as we speak. I could get evidence of that and paint her as a Negro loving slut."

"I doubt it. She asked Stan out again a few weeks ago. I don't think she's interested in Token at the moment."

"Well then, she's probably fucking Stan as we speak! I'll get evidence of that and paint her as a pussy-ass quarterback loving slut! It'd _destroy_ her!"

Kenny deadpanned a look across the table. "Oh, my God. Just _imagine_! The popular, pretty Student Body President and the popular, handsome star quarterback having _relations_. Just think of the _controversy _that would cause!"

"Sex is sex Kenny. A sluts a slut, and a fucks a fuck, no matter how clichéd the fuck may be. I pass-on info that she's spreading her legs more then a Moulin Rouge can-can dancer, and bang, her reputations shot! Goodbye trustworthy little catholic girl, hello Rebecca Cotswoldsesque whore!"

"I think you're loosing your touch Eric. Your plans used to be far better then this."

"I'm not loosing my touch. Don't underestimate the strength of a ruined reputation, especially during collage-application time. All I need to do is find one shameful secret, just one, and I can shake her confidence, I can bring her too her knees. Sometimes the little things, sometimes the classics prove to be the best. Like Star Wars, you know?"

"I guess." Exhaling, Kenny crossed his arms, leaning across the table.

After a pause, Cartman wrinkled his nose, scooping up a spoonful of pudding. "Do you really think Stan's _handsome_?"

"I was being contrived. If I was ever going to swing that way, no, Stan wouldn't be my choice."

"Well who _would_?"

Kenny tinged a slight shade of red, Cartman quirked an eyebrow. "I don't know dude! Someone not six-foot-one and obtrusively male! Fuck, I mean, who would you swing for?"

"Eh, Butters probably. Put a dress on him, a damn good wig, squint a bit, and bang, you got yourself a chick."

"Funny, in that situation I always picture you as the one in the dress and wig."

"Go to hell Kenny."

"Eh, maybe later."


	3. Is That An Offer?

Stan often wondered why his parents didn't flip at the amount of gas he got through. The amount of driving he ended up doing, the amount of times he drove to Denver, to the State Parks, to vacant fields or empty parking lots, the amount of driving he did just to get out of South Park, get to somewhere secluded or estranged, somewhere empty. All so he could pin Kyle against the backseat of his car, or hold his hand in the darkness, safe in the knowledge that no-one they knew was watching.

It was awkward, that much was for sure. It was awkward trying to find the time to sneak away, it was awkward making excuses, it was especially awkward trying to negotiate the backseat of the Chevy. Not that awkward positioning ever managed to deter them or anything, Kyle could be pretty damn flexible when the time called for it.

Murmuring, Stan pressed a kiss against Kyle's hair, inhaling sharply as Kyle bit at his neck, firm enough for Stan to feel it, light enough for it not to leave a mark. Kyle was clumsily balanced across his lap, Stan was braced against the door, clutching Kyle's ribs, keeping him steady. Stan did try to match Kyle's vigour and excitement, but he couldn't quite manage it. He was too preoccupied, to busy trying to think things through to really get into the whole 'deserted back alley' vibe.

"Are you alright? You don't seem particularly into this tonight."

Exhaling, Stan pulled a face, leaning back slightly, resting his head against the condensation on the window. "Sorry Ky, I _am_ into it. I'm _always_ into it. I just, I just can't stop _thinking_."

"About what?"

Stan sighed, glancing up. The mixture of the dusty moonlight and orange streetlight glow wasn't very flattering, in the dim light Kyle appeared vaguely sickly and colourless; it was fairly disconcerting. Had Stan not been too worried about draining his cars rather lacklustre battery, he would have turned on the internal lights. Not that the flickering, dim bulbs would have added much to the atmosphere, mind you. Biting his lip, Stan clutched at Kyle's ribs, absent-mindedly rucking up his t-shirt with his thumbs.

"About what, Stan?"

Hesitating, Stan looked away. "About Wendy."

Kyle swore softly, shutting his eyes as he sat upright, his manic hair brushing against the dingy cloth roof. Stan frowned, dropping his hands to Kyle's waist. "_Why_ are you thinking about Wendy?"

"She asked me to Homecoming today."

Kyle went rigid. "What did you say?"

"I said I'd think about it."

"Why didn't you say _no_?"

Exhaling softly, Stan looked over Kyle's shoulder, focusing on the stars, narrowing his eyes towards the moon. "It's just, well, dude, perhaps I _should_ go with her."

"_What_?" Stan felt him recoil so violently Kyle nearly overbalanced himself. Automatically Stan tightened his grip on Kyle's sides, keeping him steady.

"No! No-not like _that_ dude, _no_." Sighing, Stan gripped Kyle's ductile waist, rubbing him reassuringly. "Seriously, _no_. It's just… Well, people are beginning to ask why I keep turning her down."

"Why don't you just tell them it's because you don't _like_ her?"

"Because if I tell them I don't like Wendy, they'll just move on to someone else. I mean, fuck, even my dad won't stop asking why I don't have a girlfriend. Wendy'd just be _convenient_."

"That's pretty callous dude."

"I know. But fuck, we need to do _something_."

"Why don't you just date random girls or something? You know, take them to dinner once, make a show of it, then never call them again?"

"Doing that'd take time, you know. Arranging it, organising it, doing it. It'd take time and be a real pain in the ass. At least with Wendy I can just say yes and ignore her for the rest of the year."

"I know, but dude, it's _Wendy_." Kyle looked pretty disconsolate, Stan instinctively pulled him closer. "I mean, I-I'd…"

"I know Ky, but we gotta do _something_."

"_Why_?"

"Because people are getting suspicious."

"No, they're _not_. You're just being paranoid."

"Perhaps you're just being oblivious Ky. Look, I just want to cover our bases, that's all. I mean, just cover our asses, you know?

"No, not really. But… I mean… I guess you should just do what you thinks best, or something."

Kyle didn't look particularly convinced or particularly happy. Exhaling, Stan pulled him into a hug, pressing a kiss against his cheek. "Listen" Stan was stroking Kyle's hips, rhythmically kneading him "let's go _camping_ again soon."

"Oh, joy, camping! There's nothing I like more then getting pounded in the middle of a fucking _field_."

"Trust me Sergeant Sarcasm, I'd take you to the Savoy if I could. Unfortunately, right now, it's either tent or car. And I'm getting pretty fucking sick of trying to negotiate the car."

"So what? You'd rather do it in the middle of nowhere soaking wet and freezing cold?"

"Oh, come on! It'll be fun! In a sort of Brokeback Mountain-ish way. What with the scenery and the secrecy and the sex and the whole 'I wish I could quit you thing'. Only, you know, I don't wish I could quit you or anything. And hopefully you won't get killed by an exploding tractor tyre or anything anytime soon."

"Killed by a tyre? Why am I the _girly_ one?"

"Because I'm the quarterback. Quarterbacks are like, ultimate manliness."

"Dude, you cried at _Animal Planet_ yesterday!"

"I _did not_cry!"

"You did! Dude, I was there!"

"I might have got a little misty eyed, but it was a manly sort of misty eyed. I didn't _cry_."

"Misty eyes are never manly Stan."

"Shut up."

"Fuck you."

"Is that an offer?"

"Why don't you take off your t-shirt and find out?"

Grinning, Stan laced his arms round Kyle's shoulders, pulling him into a kiss, firm and reassuring. "Just come camping with me Ky. I'll keep you warm and dry and entertained and fed. I _promise_."

"Can't we just wait until your house is empty and do it there?"

"Can't we wait until _your_ house is empty and do it at _there_?"

"Because dude, I'd much rather _your_ mom walked in on us then mine."

"Dude, just come camping with me. I'll let you make _smores_."

"You can't bribe me with _marshmallows_, Stan."

"Yes, I can."

"Go to hell dude."

* * *

><p>AN – Stan only got misty eyed because Flower didn't come back to the den. Poor, poor flower. And yuhhuhhuh, this story has dual plotlines, so, Style everyone! Say cheese! (Gettit, style sounds like smile, you see?) Meh! Ssolfydnac! Anyhoo, thank you thank you soso much for reading, I hope you're liking the start. And uber thank yous and good wishes to all of youyouyous who reviewed! Sososo awesomeawesome lovesit loves thank you!

Andandand Savannah, upsy whupsy hush, let's all believe he learnt it from Kyle… And embrace the suspension of disbelief! Is what makes life funfunfun! I'm glad you think Cartman's in character, because I find him the hardest to write for. Let's just hope he stays in character for the rest of the story, yay! And lucky ducky, if my metabolism went any slower, it'd be going chuffing backwards. Like some awful Benjamin Button affair, I fear…


	4. Oh Really?

Cartman hated Wendy Testaburger; he hated her with a passion, with a vengeance. She was a do-gooder, a hippie, she cared way too much about stupid things, she took _everything_ way too personally, she was stubborn, relentless, vicious, she pretty much just embodied the worst parts of Stan and Kyle in one little, fluffy, purple sweatered parcel. And now she was ignoring him.

Usually Cartman considered her not talking to him a Godsend, but not this time. She was sitting there, her arms crossed, her shoulders hunched, she was sitting there with a face like thunder, forcibly ignoring Cartman. Usually Cartman considered her muteness a Godsend, but not this time. _Wendy_ had had the _gall_ to act as though the F had been all his fault, she just couldn't accept that it was _her_ fault, that had she just let Cartman get on with the report, had she let Cartman write about Ingvar Kamprad, well, everything would be peachy.

But no, she'd been too stubborn to let Cartman write what he wanted, too fucking self-absorbed to even court the idea that the world didn't revolve around her, that she didn't know _everything_. And now she was acting as though it'd all been Cartman's fault, that he had been the selfish one, the unreasonable one. She was acting like the wronged party, tricking everyone, lying to everyone, making everyone blame Cartman for _her_ failure. Her stupid self-pity was really pushing Cartman to the brink.

Granted, she'd been pretty fucking upset, and pretty fucking mad when the teacher told her she wouldn't change the grade. She'd screamed at Cartman for a good quarter of an hour, she'd threatened to beat him into a pulp, she'd thrown a hissy fit in the hallway, she'd thrown her chemistry book at him, she'd hit, she'd been _completely_ unreasonable. And now she was sulking, like a petulant four year old child. Which considering they only had fifteen minutes to write three paragraphs about corporate and fiscal hierarchies was really not helpful.

"You know ho, if you'd just _grow the fuck up and unbunch your slutty little panties_ you could get this done a hell of a lot _faster_."

"Fuck you Cartman."

"Fuck you, bitch! Just do the work!"

"Fuck you Cartman. You were the one who bitched about wanting to do the work. Well, enjoy fucking doing the work."

"I don't want to do the work, I just wanted to write the _report_. I don't give a fuck about this! You fucking do it!"

"No, _you_ do it!"

"Fuck you ho! _You_ were the one who wanted to do all the work, you _demanded _it. So just stop PMSing and get the fuck on with it!"

"I _never_ demanded to do all the work Cartman! The only reason I _have_ to do all the work is because you're a lazy douche!"

"Well if you felt like that, why didn't you let _me_ write the report bitch?"

"Because the report was _important_, and you're a fucking retard!" Wendy's pitch had been steadily rising higher and higher, an angry blush creeping up her neck. Already the people on the surrounding tables were turning to face them, blinking at the fuss. "If I'd let you write the report, all you would have done is shit out a poorly executed rendition of Mein Kampf! Just like you _always_ do, you and your obsession with fucking bullshit _crap_!"

"Ay! It _wasn't_ fucking bullshit crap! They were very valid, proven, very _important_ points! It's not _my_ fault your substandard brainfart of a report tanked _my_ grade!"

Wendy was staring at him, her eyes wide in violent disbelief. "You're a real fucking _dick_ Cartman! I just… Why… You really think _I _was the reason we fucking failed?"

Cartman pursed his lips, leaning towards her. "Duh. Of course you were Wendy. You just have to face the truth, I mean, no offence, but you really don't know shit about business." He said it with forced sympathetically, resting one hand on her shoulder. Wendy jerked herself away from his touch with such force she nearly dislocated her shoulder.

"If you really believe that Cartman, if you really think _I_ was the reason, why don't you go ask the teacher why we failed after class?"

"I'm not asking _her_ anything ho! That liberal bitch has _always _hated me."

"Everyone's always hated you Cartman. The entire schooling body has always hated you. You're a truly terrible human being. You're just-you're fucking _cancer_, Cartman."

Cartman creased his eyes and tilted his head, trying to look sympathetic. Wendy recoiled, the narrowed eyes and quirked head made Cartman look vaguely like a dough-faced snake. "Jealousy's an awful colour on you Wendy. I know it hurts, me being so popular and so _liked_, and you, well, you being so _unpopular_ and so _hated_, but you really shouldn't be so petty about it. It just makes you look pathetic."

A few tables down Kyle started snickering, glancing up at Cartman, interrupting his and Token's work. Cartman furrowed his brow, glancing up angrily. After a few moments of continued sniggering, Cartman snapped, hurling his pen at him. He missed, rather spectacularly, which caused Cartman to glower, and Kyle to double over with laughter. Across the room, the teacher cleared her throat, causing Cartman to frown up at her. He hated that old bitch nearly as much as he hated Wendy.

"Five minutes left class, hurry up and finish."

"Wendy, will you just do the fucking work! You already made me late for lunch once this week, do you really have to make me late _again_? Christ, try to be _reasonable_ here!"

"Cartman, I'm not doing it. For once in your miserable schooling carrier you'll just have to utilize your lonely little brain cell and do the fucking work yourself. I know it's hard, considering your substantial mental impairment, but'll just have to _try_."

"Ay! Just because you're too retarded to shit out three paragraphs doesn't mean _I_ am ho! I could do this crap in my sleep!"

"Oh really? I beg to differ."

"Fuck you, I'm a business fucking _maverick _bitch!"

Wendy was looking at him, one eyebrow quirked in an unimpressed, disbelieving way. "Well then, prove it Cartman."

"Fine!"

"Prove me wrong, Eric!"

"I will!" Lunging forward, he grabbed her notebook, twisting it round. After clicking up her pen, he began to write, glowering at the paper as he scrawled a furiously angry, very nearly illegible script. Wendy just raised her other eyebrow, surprised that that had actually _worked_.

"Fuck, I wish I'd never agreed to trade fucking partners. Kyle might be a _massive_ fucking bitch, but _you_, _you're_ something else!" He muttered it under his breath, attempting to be both passive aggressive and discreet. The last thing he wanted was for Kyle to actually _hear_ that.

"Don't worry Cartman. I'm going to request a new partner after class."

"Yeah?" Cartman didn't life his gaze from the paper, he was still scrawling frantically. "Well fuck you ho, I'm going to request a new partner too!"

"No one else in the class will work with you Cartman. I'm pretty sure anyone you're paired with would rather quit business then work with you. It's sort of like how any girl would rather quit life then date you, you know?"

Cartman pursed his lips, inwardly vowing to destroy her. "Whatever bitch, it's not like _you're_ inundated with offers! Fuck, the last boyfriend you had was, what, a _year_ ago? It's not like anybody wants you either _Wendy_."

Instead of getting angry, or upset, or affronted, or any emotion Cartman recognised, Wendy just sat there, the corner of her lip curving slightly. "You'd be surprised, Cartman. You'd be surprised."

* * *

><p>AN – Apologies these chapters are soso short and soso talkytalk, I'm writing though writers block at the moment, so echty yuck. Once it clears up and shooshoo's away, the words should come more easylike. Anyhoo, thank you for reading nevertheless, and thankyouthankyou sososomuches for reviewing! They keepkeep me motivated and make writewriteing a joy! Loves loves lovely!

And bugger me the last episode was something else. I don't quite know how to deal with all that in relation to all this, so I'm doing what I usually do in this situation. Desperately ignore it all and hope all is well come fall!

And Savannah, ohhh, intriguing, I have a few green teas in my tea and tisane collection (I am British, so yes, I have a tea and tisane collection), I'll start drinking them more regularly to see if they help. And yup, Flower was the queenie of Meerkat Manour! And then she died from a snake bite whilst trying to protect her cubs. I might have just happened to cry a wholewhole lot when that happened. Maybe. Yeah.


	5. Pot And Kettle Much?

Sighing quietly, Kyle rested his chin against his right hand, petulantly pulling the toppings off his pizza slice. Kenny just frowned, Kyle was a pretty expressive person; whatever he was feeling, sadness, anger, bewilderment, violent raging fury, he wore scrawled across his face. And right now, well, it was pretty obvious he wasn't very happy.

Next to him Stan was brooding dejectedly, picking at his own meal, absent mindedly pushing it across his plate, repositioning it, reshaping it, destroying it. They were both very obviously unhappy, and they were both very defiantly not talking.

"Fuck guys, I've been to funerals with less wangst then this. What the hell's up?"

Exhaling, Stan jabbed his fork into his potatoes, biting the inside of his cheek. "Nothing's up with us Ken."

"Well, that's clearly not true."

"Well, fuck you."

"Nice Stan, real nice. Well, if you're going to be a dick about it, how about you Kyle, what's the matter with you?"

"_Nothing's_the matter with me Kenny. I'm _fine_."

"Well then," Cartman ceased shoving food into his mouth for the first time since he sat down with his dangerously overloaded tray, narrowing his small eyes at Kyle "you might wanna try telling your ugly face that, Jew."

Kyle sighed, listlessly wiping his fingers on his cords. "Just… Just go to hell Cartman, yeah?"

The sheer lack of feeling in his voice was pretty disconcerting. Kyle never lacked feeling about anything. Quite frankly, having feelings about things, getting upset and angry over everything was sort of what Kyle did. To see him so emotionless, so defeated, was pretty damn depressing. Clearing his throat slightly, Kenny leant across the lunch table, carefully propping his elbows on the faux wood. "Seriously Kyle, what's up, huh?" He tried to look as concerned as he felt, as empathetic and understanding as he could.

Stan clenched his jaw slightly, inadvertently gripping his fork that bit to tight. "Look, it's _nothing_ Kenny. Kyle's just… he's just ups-He's angry because I'm taking Wendy to Homecoming."

Kenny inhaled slightly, biting his lip. If Stan got back with Wendy, it would mean he get more time to hang with Kyle. A lot more time. Cartman inhaled slightly, inadvertently inhaling several French fries, consequently gagging himself with deep-fried potato sticks. Kyle just glowered at his lunch tray, crossing his arms tightly across his chest, hugging himself. Clearing his throat, Stan pressed on. "He thinks it's a stupid idea-He thinks I'm being stupid. To, you know, trust her again and stuff."

"You _are_ being stupid! Fuck, you don't even _like_ Wendy. Fuck knows why you've got to take her to Homecoming."

"Fucking no-one likes Wendy." Cartman gasped, still trying to cough up his fries, his face slowly going a deeper and deeper shade of maroon.

Wrinkling his nose slightly, Kenny shrugged. "I dunno Eric, I'm pretty ambivalent towards Wendy. Sure, she's sort of a bitch, and she did cause that whole hilarious Raven thing, and she is completely insane. But she's still far more personable then _you_. I've met hornet's nests that are more personable then you."

"No one cares, what you think, po'boy." Cartman gasped out, his face now a vaguely impressive shade of eggplant.

"Would you just hit him on the fucking back already? Christ, if he fucking dies it'll only cause trouble for _us_." Stan snapped, glaring at a Kenny. Shrugging slightly, Kenny obliged, gleefully hitting Cartman with far more force then necessary, successfully helping him dislodge the fries.

Kyle sighed slightly, pushing his very unappealing slice of pizza across his plate, smearing it against the plastic. Stan frowned, lowering his eyebrows. Usually Kyle would be relishing in Cartman's near fatal trachea blockage; today however, he was far more interested in sulking and dismantling his food.

"Dude, you should really eat something, you know?"

Kyle pursed his lips, eyes firmly fixed on his tray. "_I'm not hungry_."

"Look, Ky, if you want to come too, I could get Wendy to set you up with one of her friends. I did that for her once, she kinda owes me one, you know?"

"Quite frankly Stan, I'd sooner gild my eyeballs with rusty, tetanus infected needles and bathe them in a bath of lavender scented salt then go anywhere near Wendy or any of her heinous friends."

"Surely it'll be better if you just suck it up and come with me then staying at home and moping."

"Oh, don't worry Stan, I'll be _fine_. I'll might even play some video games, you know, with fucking _Cartman_. Just like I usually do when you're off being a fucking _dick_."

"Fuck you Jew, I'm _busy_ on Homecoming."

Widening his eyes, Kyle turned to stare at Cartman. Cartman, having recovered from his near-fatal throatal blockage, continued to shovel down his lunch, not looking up from his plate. Kenny wrinkled his nose in disgust and looked away, Stan shook his head slowly, rubbing his eyes with the palm of his hand. Kyle just continued staring, his mouth open in horrified bewilderment.

"Christ Cartman, you have a _date_? Isn't that like, the first sign of the motherfucking _apocalypse_?"

"Oh ha ha ha beakface. Look, I never said I had a date, I'm just _busy_. Got stuff to do, you know? I don't have time to humour you. You'll just have to play with yourself or something."

"I'll play with you Kyle!" Kenny offered eagerly.

Stan just deadpanned a glare at him, biting the inside of his cheek. "Aren't _you_ supposed to be taking Powder to Homecoming?"

"So? I can cancel. We can't force our dear little Kylie to play with himself, can we?"

"You'd cancel on your date week before the dance? Fuck Kenny, that's just _cruel_."

"Christ Stan, pot and kettle much?" Kyle murmured under his breath, glaring savagely at him. Stan just shut his eyes, shaking his head.

"She's not technically my date, you know? I'm escorting her more as a friend, in a _friendly_capacity."

"It's still not okay to fucking ditch her though!"

"Well," Kyle pushed his tray across the table, clumsily pulling himself to his feet, "fuck this shit. I'm going to the library."

Stan blinked, glancing up. "You-You're going to the _library_?"

"No, I'm going to the library."

"Oh, right. Well, do you want me to come with you?"

"No, don't bother. You're still eating."

"I'm almost do-"

"I'm finished." Kenny interrupted, pulling himself to his feet, "I can come with you, if you'd like?"

"Alright, if you want." Kyle just shouldered his bag, angrily stalking out the cafeteria, a willing Kenny close on his heels. Stan exhaled, glancing sadly at Kyle's abandoned lunch tray. Kyle always bussed his own tray. His passive-aggressive little protest was somewhat heartbreaking.

Across the table, Cartman looked up, chewing an overly large mouthful of pie. "Well, Detective Sandy Vagina there's really fucking pissed at you Stan."

"Yes, I gathered." Stan sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. "He just thinks I'm being stupid, is all."

"You are being stupid. Wendy is an awful human being. She's the devils incarnate. Most people would sooner hack off their own cock with a pair of rusty nail clippers then go anywhere _near _her."

"Well, what else am I supposed to do?"

Cartman blinked, scowling across the table. "You could, you know, _not_ date her? Fuck Marsh, you're the fucking _quarterback_, you're fucking contractually guaranteed a steady supply of pussy, you don't need to hang on to that ho. Christ" Cartman shoved another spoonful of pie into his mouth, speaking though the crumbs, "I think everybody in this Godforsaken school'd sooner fuck that hideous Jew-dog you insist on not shooting in the face then go anywhere near Wendy-motherfucking-Tittybitcher."

Stan just started across the table, his arms crossed in front of him. "Don't be stupid Cartman." He said dryly.


	6. Just Like, Please, Yeah?

"Look, I said I was sorry, what more do you want?"

"Sorry doesn't quite cut it this time, Stan."

"I'm _really_ sorry then."

Kyle just flipped him off, irate and humourless. Stan exhaled, leaning back against his headboard. His parents were out, his sister was away, house was empty, fucking _empty_, and instead of taking full advantage of this fact, instead of taking glorious, wonderful advantage, they were arguing. Again. It felt like they'd been having the same, continuous, never ending fight for _days_ now, and it was getting pretty fucking old.

Kyle was leaning against the wall, his head tilted towards the window, his arms latched dejectedly across his chest. He was pouting, very obviously, very irately, and sort of childishly pouting. Stan bit his lip. "Look, I know, you're not happy, I know you don't like it, I know you think I'm being stupid, and I know you're fucking pissed off. You've made that all _very_ clear Ky. Can we please just leave it now, hmm? Here," Stan patted the mattress next to him, trying, and failing, to force a smile, "just come sit next to me, yeah?"

Tensing his jaw, Kyle shook his head, dropping his gaze to the carpet. "No, its okay. I'm fine here."

"You're not fine there. You're leaning against a fucking wall. You've been leaning against a fucking wall for half-a-fucking-hour. You can't be fucking comfortable."

"No, I am. I'm fine."

Stan sighed, frowning sadly, "Please Ky, just come sit with me, hmm?" After an enduring, resolute silence, Stan glanced away, absent mindedly worrying with his bed sheets. "Please Ky, I'm _tired. _Can you please just forgive me?" Stan glanced up, Kyle remained silent. Exhaling, Stan pulled himself to his feet, inhaling sharply as he stumbled over a strewn up, abandoned t-shirt. Kyle glanced up, frowning softly. "I just… I just don't want anyone to find out about us. That's all Ky. I'm not doing this to hurt you, or upset you. I'm just..."

Kyle frowned for a moment, gaze fixed resolutely out the window. "Look, Stan, if… If it really bothers you _that_ much, if it really _fucking_ bothers you that people might find out about this, us, _you_, _me_, _whatever_, well, then perhaps we should just _stop_ it, stop _this_, huh? That way, well-"

"Just don't _say_ things like that Ky! Just don't even _go_ there, yeah?"

"Well, you're obviously not okay with it, with…" He made some convoluted, long winded gesture, "With _this_! I mean, if you _were_, you wouldn't be so _worried_ about keeping it such a fucking secret!"

"I'm perfectly okay with it! Dude, after two _fucking_ years I've come to accept it, fuck dude, I've come to _fucking_ like it! I just-just…" Exhaling, Stan gripped the bridge of his nose, bowing his head, "Dude, please, just please understand; I'm-I'm only trying to keep you _safe_, yeah? I just want to keep you safe."

"Safe from what? Dude, even _if _people find out, well, it's not like we live in fucking _Uganda_ or anything! They're not going to fucking _stone_ us to death! It just, it wouldn't be the end of the fucking world, you know?"

"It's _South Park_ Kyle! We don't know what they'll do if they find out! The people in this town are liable to do _anything_ when it comes to shit like this! I'd just-I'd rather not take my chances, yeah? I mean, what if they do something _stupid_? What if they do something _dangerous_? Dude, what if you get _hurt_? What…" Stan swallowed hard, reaching out to grip Kyle's shoulder, "What would I do then, huh?"

Kyle bit his lip, watching Stan's hand. "But… But you're turning me into, like, a mistress or something Stan. Retrospectively. Dude, I didn't even think that was _possible_!"

"You're not my mistress Ky."

"Really? I get to be the _first_ wife? Well fucking _goody_!"

"You get to be my _only_ fucking wife Kyle! Fuck, if that's really what you want, get in the fucking car and I'll drive you to fucking Vermont right now! I'll marry the fucking wife right into you! Just give the fucking word Ky!"

Kyle glowered, clutching his cuffs in his hands. "This isn't funny Stan!"

"Look, I'm sorry Kyle. I'm sorry about a lot of things. But would you please, _please_ stop overreacting. This thing with Wendy, I'm not going to marry her, I'm not even really going to _date_ her, it's nothing _like_ that. She's not _really_ my girlfriend Ky. It's nothing like that."

"But _she_ doesn't know that." Kyle pulled a face, a fairly guttering mixture of sorrow and disappointment. "You're being _cruel_ to her. You're being _cruel_ to me! I mean, fuck Stan, you're _never_ cruel. Not to _anything_."

Exhaling, Stan stepped forward, lacing himself round Kyle, pushing a kiss against his hair. Kyle's remained rigid, pointedly looking away. "I'm _sorry_. I really am. But Kyle, Wendy's resilient, she'd _understand_. And you, well you're _you_. This, this just, it just _is_ dude."

"But-" Before Kyle could continue, Stan cut him off, pressing a firm, brief kiss to the corner of his mouth, lifting his fingers to the curve of his jaw.

"I'm sick of fighting you Ky. I _know_ you don't like it, I don't like it, but _please_, just understand. It's something I've got to do. Just, just _trust me_, okay?"

"But-"

Stan glanced down at him, all clear blue eyes, all demanding and piercing. "_Trust me_, Ky. _Please_."

For a second Kyle hesitated, before exhaling, and nodding. "Okay."

"Okay?

"_Okay_."

"Thank you. I really don't want to fight with you anymore Ky, I don't want you storming out with Kenny, or getting yourself worked up. I just want you to trust me. Trust me, and everything'll be alright. I _promise_."

Kyle quirked and eyebrow. "You promise?"

"I promise, okay. Everything'll be alright."

"I wasn't _storming_ _out_, you know? Not really. I actually did just need go to the library. And you _were_ still eating. And Kenny just tagged along, I dunno, to try cheer me up or something. It didn't work, mind you, so he tried offering me some of the whiskey his brother's attempting to make in their bathtub. I politely refused; what with not wanting to loose my eyesight and all."

Laughing softly, Stan glanced down at the small space between them. Reaching up, he gently ghosted his hand up Kyle's side, following the gentle curve of his waist. Smiling slightly, he shut his eyes, he resting his head against Kyle's, burying his face into the mass of wiry hair. He felt Kyle relax back against him, the sheer presence of him invading Stan's senses. He smelt reassuring, like shampoo, like shampoo mixed with sweat and hair and life and _Kyle_.

"Just… Just promise me you won't kiss her, yeah? Like, nothing, not-not like on the lips or… Just like, please, yeah?"

"Alright Miss. Roberts, I promise. There will be no kissing on the lips. There will be no kissing _anywhere, _okay? I'll just tell her I have mono, or oral herpes or something."

"I thought this whole shtick was you trying to _defend_ you reputation, not to paint yourself as some disease riddled harlot!"

"Well, I'll just tell her Kenny sneezed on me or something."

"You really think she'll believe that? Fuck Stan, she's a bitch, not a _retard_!"

"Well, she'll just have to believe it. Anyway, it doesn't matter. I'll think of something." Shifting slightly, Stan pressed a kiss against Kyle's cheek. "You hungry Julia?"

"Yeah, kinda."

"You wanna go get something to eat?"

"Alright."

* * *

><p>AN – Sorrysorrysorry chapter is late and short, life as been busybusybusy. Had to move house and decided to give blood. Probably should have done it in that order. Giving blood then moving house isn't so great. Thought I was going to pass out halfway though. For a moment it all went sparkly! Anyhoo, thankyou thankyou for reading, hopehope you're enjoying the ride! And uberuber manymany thankyouthankyoulovesloves for reviewing, is so lovely and awesome and wonderful and a million billion !

And updates may be a bit iffy whatwhat next week. I've got to go up and stay with my brother to let tradesmen into his flat whilst him and his fiancée ate at work. So yay for four hour trainrides and connections at Doncaster!

And ElectronikZombie, aye, I be British! But Northern. East Yorkshire, to be exact. Not Hull, but one of the nicer, less abysmally depressing awful places that unfortunately happen to be _near_ Hull.


	7. You Got A Better Idea Dickwad?

"Mom, get the fucking door!" Cartman waited for a second, listening. When the knocking continued, and nothing happened, he cleared his throat. "Mom! Mom! Just answer the _fucking _door!"

The knocking intensified into a hammering. Cartman swore loudly, pulling himself to his feet, roughly throwing a blanket over his desk. Cursing his pointless mother under his breath, he lumbered down the stairs.

"What the hell do you want Kenny?"

Kenny was standing there, dressed in an awfully tacky, fairly grimy, polyester white tuxedo. Cartman wrinkled his nose, clearly very unimpressed.

Kenny just cleared his throat. "I need to borrow a tie."

"Fuck you! I'm _busy_." He made to slam the door, but Kenny stopped him, quickly catching the painted wood, quickly wedging himself into the doorway.

"Fine, I need to talk to you. And then borrow a tie."

"_Fuck you_! I'm fucking busy!"

"No, you're not!"

"Yes, I _am_."

"Christ Eric, this won't take long!"

Cartman tried to force the door shut again, but Kenny remained resolute. Rolling his eyes, he gave in, letting the door swing open. Grinning at him, Kenny shot through the gap, quickly bounding up the stairs. Glaring at his disappearing back, Cartman trudged after him, cursing loudly as he pounded up the steps; by the time Cartman made it back to his room, Kenny had made himself comfortable on his bed, his tattered shoes dripping slush on the blankets, getting his duvet cover both wet and muddy. Cartman's glare intensified into a full on glower at this.

"Where's you mom?" Kenny asked innocently, pointedly ignoring the mess he was making, idly twiddling his thumbs together.

Cartman continued to glower at him from the doorway. "I dunno, out I guess."

"And here's me thinking she worked from home. Who's the lucky trick today, Eric?"

"Ay, shut the fuck up! She's just gone to the grocery store or something."

Kenny quirked an eyebrow. "The grocery store? And here's me thinking she _stopped_ doing all that back-alley work when we were kids!"

Pursing his lips, Cartman glared across the room, crossing his arms huffily. Or at least he attempted to cross his arms huffily. His stumpy forearms couldn't quite reach across his mammoth chest, so the gesture required a fair bit of effort. "Nice suit Kenny; how many mortgages did you family need to take out to buy that tacky monstrosity?"

"Oh, har har. Look, I just need to ask you for a favour, okay?" Cartman's eyebrows shot up disbelievingly. Exhaling, Kenny rubbed his face, his fun well and truly depleting. Usually asking Cartman for a favour was about as good an idea as mooning the Encierro, but he was desperate, and there was no-one else. "I just need you to call me in about an hours time, okay?"

Cartman eyed him suspiciously. "Why?"

"It doesn't matter. I just need you to call me."

"I'm not going to do something _just_ because you ask me to dickwad. Tell me w_hy_?"

"Because…" Kenny hesitated, fiddling with the lapel of his tuxedo, glaring at it with a venomous dislike. "Look, I just don't really like dances. Or…" He pointed at himself, gesturing slightly, "Or suits. I _really_ don't like suits. Quite frankly, I'd rather spend the night decapitating zombies with you or-or Kyle, you know? I need an excuse to sneak out. You call me, I extant, and never return!"

"Fuck, I'm guessing you didn't rupture too many brain cells thinking up that genius plan. I mean, Jesus Christ Kenny."

"What? You got a better idea dickwad?"

Cartman lowered his eyebrows. "Don't you think the whole 'fake emergency' cliché's been done to death already?"

"Yeah, that's why I need you to _actually_ call me. That way, it'll seem _real_, you know?"

Cartman snorted. "No amount of jazzing up could ever make the 'get phone call, leave fast' plan real. That pathetic excuse for a shack you call 'home' could _actually_ burn to the ground, you could _actually_ be escorted out the dance by _firemen_, and it still wouldn't seem real."

"Look, Powder's not the sharpest knife in the draw. I just need it to be as real as possible. I mean, I don't want to hurt her feelings or anything."

"I don't see why you're so desperate to leave anyway. I can't play tonight, I'm busy. I already told you that."

"I know. But Kyle isn't. If you're so _busy_, I'll just have to go play with Kyle."

Scowling slightly, Cartman turned to his desk, carefully neatening up the blanket. "If Jewboy's so _available_, why don't you leave _me_ alone and get the covertous rat to play folly with your pathetic excuse for a plan?"

"Because… Just _because_, okay? Besides, I have no idea where he is. Won't answer his phone or anything."

"He's probably off sobbing because Stan declared their pathetic Ersatz marriage over. You should leave him alone. If he gets depressed enough, he might do us all a favour and drown himself."

"There's no need to be _bitter_ Cartman. He did offer to play with you. Sort of."

"I don't _care_, and I'm not _bitter_. Quite frankly, I'd sooner boil my own cock then go anywhere near that depressing runt."

"Pur-lease, like you have a _cock_! Don't be _stupid_ Eric!"

Growling slightly, Cartman hurled an empty mug at Kenny's head. Nimbly, Kenny leapt out of the way, watching as the procaine cracked against Cartman's headboard.

"Careful Erica, don't PMS too hard. You'll hurt yourself."

Cartman's face was slowly going purple, the angry flush creeping up from his neck. "Fuck you po'boy!"

"Not when you're on your _period_. Don't be _gross_ Erica!"

Snorting in fury, Cartman swept Clyde frog off his dresser, hurling him at Kenny. Laughing, Kenny sidestepped the throw, watching the stuffed toy bounce against the wall. Cartman just grunted in frustration, vehemently balling his hands into fists. Across the room, Kenny was still grinning, cockily leaning against Cartman's desk. Absently, he began to fiddle with a corner of the blanket, loosely toying with the hem. Scowling, Cartman snapped his fingers, watching Kenny snap his gaze away from the plaid pattern. "Ay, po'boy! Put that fucking _down_!"

Narrowing his eyes, Kenny turned back to the blanket. Before Cartman could stop him, he'd pulled it off the table, exposing Cartman's carefully organised haul. For a second he just stared at the spyware, at the neat little cameras and microphones, the transmitters and wires, all lined up, all eerily organized. Then he blinked. "Eric, where… What… What are you doing with all this military shit?"

Cartman yanked the blanket back from Kenny, carefully straightening some wires that had been blown out of place. "_Nothing_. I'm just-it's-it's just-" He sighed, the knuckles clutched around the blanket going white, "They're for _Wendy_."

For a second Kenny just stared at him, mouth open in confusion. Then it hit him like a raging bull. "Wait, you're going to_ bug_ her? Seriously? Your big plan for tonight, your big plan for _revenge_ is to _bug_ her? _Seriously_? Christ, you _are_ loosing your touch, Eric."

Cartman glowered, crossing his arms. "Just fuck off Kenny. This is the _perfect_ revenge plan! You just don't know what you're talking about!"

"Christ, I thought my 'fake emergency' plan was bad. But this, dude, this doesn't even _count_ as a plan. Just a mild invasion of her privacy! Fuck me, you used to be so _good_ at this too!"

By now Cartman had gone purple enough to shame a blueberry. Kenny found it repugnantly impressive. "Would you just piss off and leave me the fuck alone already! Christ!"

"No. I still need a tie."

"Well then sell some blood and _buy_ one you white-trash hick!"

Narrowing his eyes, Kenny began extending his hands towards the neatly organised desk, glaring at Cartman as his fingers began to brush some very expensive spyware. Cursing, Cartman stormed across his room, tearing open his dressers top draw, rooting about, pulling out a hideously patterned tie.

"Here!" He hurled it across the room, missing Kenny be a good few feet. "Just take it and fuck off!"

Frowning, Kenny bent down, picking up the tie, running his hands across the faux silk. "I can't wear this! Dude, this is a _Christmas _tie!"

"Well, just pretend you're getting into the festive spirit _early_ this year!"

"Dude, just give me a real tie, yeah? I don't want to look like a fucking _dick_."

"Trust me Kenny, you don't need to worry. In _that_ suit, you already look like a fucking dick!"

"But-"

"If you don't leave _now_, I swear to God I'm going to kick you square in the motherfucking nuts!"

Letting out some exasperated, angry noise, Kenny stalked out the room, novelty Christmas tie still clutched against his chest. Cartman heard him jump down the stairs, slamming the door behind him. Frowning, Cartman turned back to his desk, carefully checking his equipment, lovingly straightening wires, delicately brushing some dust of the tiny lenses. He _did_ have a plan. He'd lured Wendy's parents out of the house, thanks to a forged letter inviting them to a non-existent Help the Hungry benefit in Denver. Whist the house was empty, he was going to wire every single fucking room, he was going to bug every corner. Sooner or later Wendy Testaburger was going to screw up

He was going to search every inch of her fucking hippy hovel for something he could use against her. If needs be, was going to analyse her fucking _journal_ for something incriminating. He was determined to find something. He was determined Wendy was going to _pay_.

Oh, and while he was at it, he was going to wire up Stan's room too. Now the world's most pathetic couple were back together, he needed to keep an eye on them. He'd be damned if he was going to miss a chance of shaming Wendy Testaburger out of office just because she'd decided to drop her pants at her boyfriends house instead. Cartman wasn't stupid. He made sure he left no base uncovered.

* * *

><p>AN – What is this? Actual plot and progression of the story? Regular chapter length? You don't belong around here, mate. No sir. No siree.

Anyhoo, anyhoo sorrysorrysorry but I'm off to visit/staywith my lives-a-fucking-long-way-away brother later on today (point of interest, today is also my birthday. That's not why I'm going to visit my brother or anything, he just needs someone to be in to let in the internet fixer/plumber), so this maymay be the last update for a little little while. Still, I'll be back within a week, so candyfluff! Anyway, thank you thank you sososo muches for reading, I hope you're enjoying the ride. And to all the lovely lovely reviewers who left me such lovely lovely reviews, thank you thank you sososomuch. Is lovelyandfluffyandwonderful! Yupses! Loves loves loves.


	8. An Infectious Bout Of Douche?

Stan hated formal dances. The noise, the atmosphere, the lack of Kyle, he found the whole charade stuffy, packed and tacky. The mismatched streamers and overly colourful balloons, the messy metallic confetti, the thumping, booming music that schizophrenically changed between pop chart hit and slow dance classic. The screaming, overly exited girls who shrieked across the gymnasium like coyotes in heat: it was all way, way too much.

He imagined dances could be quite fun, if circumstances were different. Perhaps if Kyle was here with him, making fun of the girls' tragic attempt and formalwear, snidely slating their lack of class, grinning that roguish grin that never boded well. Perhaps if Kyle was here, kitted out in his soft suited finery, all brilliant, all wonderful; perhaps if Kyle was here, providing a warm body he was actually willing to press himself against and sway in a vague attempt at slow dance, perhaps if it was Kyle sitting that bit too close, leaning in that bit too far, well perhaps things would be different.

But circumstances were as they were. Stan was here, affixed to a very uncomfortable chair, discreetly leaning further and further away from Wendy. And Kyle was at home, probably still wearing the same scruffy clothes he'd worn to school, probably decapitating zombies or sulking in his room or arguing state welfare policies with Ike. It was anyone's guess really.

Stan sighed, absent mindedly fidgeting with his dress shirt. It didn't fit him quite right, it was too old, that slight bit too small. He'd outgrown it. He outgrew it a while ago. Replacing it was on his to-do list; just not very high up his to-do list. And the cufflinks he'd borrowed from his dad were irritating him, they were too loose, too awkward. Shaped like pathetic little guitars, they'd clearly been designed for aesthetics over functionality.

Exhaling Stan stared out across the dancefloor, lost in thought. Next to him he felt Wendy lean in even closer, forcing him to lean so far back in his chair he nearly overbalanced it. Frowning, he watched Token twirl some dainty underclassman round in a very convoluted, fairly bastardised foxtrot. Frowning, he watched Clyde do a very graphic bump and grind with Bebe, a bump and grind so graphic it managed to be both mesmerising and nauseating.

Across the cheap little table, Kenny was desperately checking his phone, pulling it out his pocket every five seconds so he could glower at the cracked screen. Powder frowned slightly, loosely crossing her arms across her chest. Tucked away in the corner of the gym, part hidden in shadow, they really did make a sorry little party.

"Kenny, is everything alright?"

Starting slightly, Kenny glanced up, wide eyed and startled. "I'm sorry Powder, I really am, I'm just not feeling well." Kenny lied fluidly, brushing several messy strands of hair off his face. "I might have to call it an early night, you know? Skip out a little early so I can get some rest."

Stan frowned, he'd be damned before he was going to let Kenny abandon him. If he had to suffer though this, someone was going to suffer with him. Powder just creased her eyes in concern, a worried frown pulling down the corner of her lip.

"Awh, you can't leave yet! They're about to announce the Homecoming Court! You've got to stay for that."

"Really? Do I have to?"

Next to Stan, Wendy exhaled with a slight 'humph', petulantly pulling herself away from him, primly crossing one leg over the other.

"Are you ever going to ask me to dance Stan?"

"Maybe later Wendy. Not right now. It's too early."

"It's not too early! It's nearly over. C'mon Stan!"

Stan just shook his head, glairing down at his glass. Across the table, Powder cleared her throat. "I'll dance with you Wendy." She offered with an air of self-sacrifice and pity. Noticeable, pathetic pity. Wendy frowned slightly; she really hated pity. Nevertheless, it was the best offer she'd had all night; and that was a fairly pitiable fact. Exhaling she pulled herself to her feet, reluctantly following Powder across the gym, reluctantly joining a bouncing group of shrieking women. Stan pointedly ignored it all, busying himself with his punch.

After an awkward minute of silence, Kenny cleared his throat. "So, you voted yet?"

Stan looked up, frowning slightly. Kenny just jerked his thumb, gesturing across the dancefloor. The Homecoming committee had erected a small, garish voting booth. Annie was supervising.

Stan wrinkled his nose. "Of course not. All that Homecoming shit, it's just stupid high school cliché. I'm not voting. Not for something so stupid."

Kenny grinned. "Oh, don't be such a sourpuss. It's just a bit of fun."

Stan pursed his lips. "Who'd you vote for?"

"It's a secret."

"Don't be a dick. Who'd you vote for?"

"Why, I voted for you, Stanley dearest. You shall be my king!"

Stan blinked, frowning down at his punch. "Fuck you Kenny."

Kenny just gasped in faux outrage, clapping his hand theatrically over his mouth. "You should be flattered, dear Stan. I've chosen you to be my clichéd Homecoming ruler!"

Stan rolled his eyes. "Do you want me to go vote for you? Return the favour or whatever?"

"I'm not on the ballad."

"You can be my write in candidate."

"Nah, you're not allowed to do that. I tired it. Annie nearly castrated me."

Stan's lip quirked. "Who'd you try and nominate?"

"Kyle."

Stan glanced up sharply, eyebrows creased. "Kyle? Why Kyle?"

Kenny shrugged, glancing away. "I dunno. I just wanted to. He'd not here, so I thought it might be funny or something."

They lapsed back into depressed silence, frowning at the glittery table decorations. Kenny began to absently rearrange the confetti stars, humming tunefully along with the music, pausing briefly to check his phone. The song ended, and the girls returned. Crossing his arms, Stan just let his mind wander, grunting a lacklustre 'hello' as Wendy sat back down.

After a few minutes awkward brooding, Wendy pursed her lips. "Stan, why the fuck did you fucking ask me to this dance?"

"Because I wanted you to come with me." Stan lied.

"Really?"

"Yup."

"Then why are you being such a fucking dick?"

"I'm not being a dick!"

"You are being a dick! You're being all broody and depressive and boring! Christ Stan, I've had more fun at wakes!"

"Perhaps I'm just not feeling so good Wends."

Wendy raised a disbelieving eyebrow. "Oh really, what's wrong with you? Twatitis? Dickheadache? An infectious bout of douche?" She was hissing through her teeth, grimacing at him. Across the table Powder was trying to pretend she wasn't eavesdropping, resolutely keeping her eyes glued to the makeshift stage. Kenny was being far less tactful, openly staring at the angry Wendy.

Stan cursed under his breath, crossing his arms tightly across his chest. "I don't know Wendy! Perhaps I've got what Kenny has!"

It was Kenny's turn to raise his eyebrow. Wendy just shook her head. "There's nothing wrong with you Stan! You're just being pathetic! And I want to know why!"

The gym had gone quiet, the lights had been dimmed. They were announcing the Homecoming Court. Bridon Gueermo was already standing on stage, grinning and waving, a cheap plastic crown teetering precariously on his perfectly dishevelled hair. A girl Stan didn't know was standing next to him, beaming and sobbing in equal, unnecessary measures.

"And our Homecoming Queen is…"

"You could at least try to act like you were enjoying yourself St-"

"Bebe Stevens!"

Wendy broke off her rant, forcing a smile as she applauded her friend. Across the dancefloor, Bebe shrieked, leaping to her feet and stampeding towards the stage. Commandeering the microphone, she proceeded to give an overblown, melodramatic speech that would put a Miss Universe winner to shame.

"And our Homecoming King is..."

"Look," Wendy leant closer to him, lowering her voice to a octave below 'venomous hiss'. Stan leaned away from her, his eyes going wide. "I just don't get why you asked me of you were going to spend the whole night sulking like a pathetic little c-"

"Stanley Marsh!"

Stan blinked, frowning up at the stage. Someone clicked a spotlight on him, forcing him to squint and blink. People were clapping, some were cheering, some were whistling. Across the table, Kenny stifled a snort, turning it onto a cough. Automatically Stan pulled himself to his feet, limping towards the stage. Anything to get away from Wendy and her rant.

Annie forced a sash over his dinner jacket, some wry, surprisingly strong junior forced the crown onto his head. He muttered his 'thank you' into the microphone, he forced a smile, he patted Bebe's hand as she squealed and gripped is arm, he pointedly ignored Wendy's glare, he fakely congratulated the rest of the Court. He had his photo taken about a million times, faked poses and forced smiles, he shook the principles hand. It was all a bit surreal. And all a bit awful. All sort of really, really awful.

Then someone lit up the dancefloor, and DJ started the last song. And it was up to the King and Queen to close the dance. One last charade and the whole night was over, it was all finally over.

Exhaling, Stan placed a tentative hand on Bebe's waist, shutting his eyes as she dragged him across the makeshift dancefloor She was pretty tall, taller then Wendy, taller then Kyle. Then again, it could just be the shoes; she'd spent all night tottering about in a pair of obscenely high stiletto things, fighting a loosing battle between grace and gravity.

Stan sighed for what felt like the millionth time that night, resting his head on her shoulder. Her hair was brushing against his cheek. It was too processed, overly styled and tacky with product. It was too forced and worked, but if Stan ignored the overpowering scent of hairspray, the smell of Bebe's perfume, if he ignored all the fake musks, if he imagined a sturdier form, thicker hips, if he squeezed his eyes shut and concentrated hard, really hard, really really hard, it sort felt a little bit like Kyle.

Only no, not really. Because only Kyle could ever really feel like Kyle.

* * *

><p>AN – Yup, back from London. London made me sick. I blame the Tube. Big germy tin can on rickety tracks. But on a positive note, I got to see the Miro exhibit. That made me happy. Then I saw a mummified kitten. That made me sad. Did you know come of those cats the Egyptians mummified didn't actually die naturally? They killed them just so they could mummify them. So, so not candyfloss, you Ancient Egyptians. Anyhoo, thank you thank you for read read reading, and uber super duper million zillion thank you's for all the lovely lovely reviews! So so so thank you lovely lovely loves.

And thank you thank you thank you for the Birthday wishes. So so so so so lovely lovely loves too! (And totally candyfloss).

And Savannah, I hopes hopes you had a lovely time in Tampa too visiting your family and stuffish stuff! And we do love our Cartman as is; a supermassiveevil twatface! And lawl, I used to feminise my little brothers name too! Then he grew a foot and a bit taller then me and stopped being little. Lesigh. Lelesigh.


	9. What If I Don't Want To Be The King?

Eric Cartman was in the basement, innocently "playing CIA". That's what his mom resolutely believed, that's what his mom resolutely insisted. The basement that had once been a detective agency, a Laundromat, a battle station, that basement was now a hub; a hub full of humming monitors, buzzing speakers, blank DVD's, old computer towers, new hard dives, satellite relays, tangled wires, mini-fridges and dreadful foreboding. Eric Cartman had set up a spy-base, he'd surrounded himself with snacks, and plonked himself in front of the screens. He'd watched Wendy's parents come home an hour before, irritated and complaining about being set up. He'd watched them have have a chat, watch TV, he'd watched them go to bed. Now he was waiting, carefully monitoring his cameras, carefully checking equipment, carefully scanning the screens. Everything was perfect, perfectly set up, perfectly wired up, everything was recording, everything was _ready_. Now, he just had to wait.

He'd resurrected his old intercom system, wired it up to the kitchen. He occasionally barked orders at his mom, orders for food and drink, orders for entertainment, orders for equipment. Right now he was tucking into his third toaster pastry chocolate-mix butter bar of the night, petulantly waiting for his mother to return from the twenty-four hour Big-Buy, waiting for her to return with new DVD writer.

His careful ransacking of the Testaburger house had uncovered nothing, absolutely nothing. He'd found bank statements, pictures, photos, books, magazines, he'd logged onto her computer, he'd sifted though her room, and he'd found nothing, nothing out of the ordinary, nothing truly shameful, nothing good enough to use. Even her whiny little journal was painfully disappointing. Nothing more then pages and pages of stupid girlie worries about stupid girlie things, the worrying about her schoolwork, the worrying about her friends, the whimperings about how Stan wouldn't get back together with her, the joy when he asked her back out, the worrying about what to wear to the dance, the bitching about Cartman, pages and pages of her stupid unimportant _feelings_.

A sudden motion on screen eight caught his eye. Cartman frowned; Stan was walking Wendy to her front door, his arms crossed across his chest, his head bowed in silence. He was wearing a crown and a sash, a tacky little sash. Cartman snorted derisively; trust them to vote the über pussy Homecoming King.

They reached her porch, they turned to face each other, they made stilted small talk. Wendy leant in to peck his lips, Stan quickly jerked his head to one side and offered her his jawbone. They bode each other polite goodbyes, and parted.

Cartman nearly punched the screen. He'd wanted raunchy smut, embarrassing, reputation destroying sex, not a prissy, chaste scene from _The Importance of Being Earnest_. Stan disappeared off the side of the screen, Wendy carefully shut the door behind her. Exhaling, she silently tiptoed up the dark staircase, careful not to wake her sleeping parents. Once in her room, she began to get ready for bed.

For a second Cartman contemplated pasting the school walls with pictures of her naked, but quickly abandoned the idea. It really was that bit _too_ cliché, and he was desperate to prove to Kenny that he _actually wasn't_ loosing his touch. Wendy got undressed, she got changed, all under the watchful eye of Cartman, she washed her face and brushed her teeth, still under the watchful eye of Cartman, she got into bed and read a bit, she fell asleep under the unnervingly focused, very creepy, watchful eye of Cartman.

Swearing violently, Cartman turned his attention to Stan's screen, narrowing his eyes at the low-res picture. Stan was sitting on the edge of his bed in his darkened room, slumped forward. He was clutching his crown, running his fingers across the plastic, brooding pathetically. Exhaling, Stan leant across to his phone, unhooking the receiver, dialling fluidly. Cartman frowned; perhaps this was it, perhaps he was calling Wendy, perhaps he was going to invite her over for that reputation destroying romp after all!

It wasn't Wendy he was calling however. She remained fast asleep in her bed, none the wiser to his phone call. Someone else had answered, the microphone in Stan's room wasn't powerful enough to pick up anything more then the odd infliction on a hushed vowel. Stan talked for a minute, he listened for a minute, he talked for a minute more. Then he hung up, sitting back on the edge of his bed.

Five minutes passed, ten, nothing happened. Cartman dimly wondered if he should jus fuck this all to hell and go to bed, or if he should hold out that bit longer and demand his mom made him another snack. Cartman sighed, focusing the camera. He'd go to bed in a minute, once the caffeine from the two litre bottle of Coke he'd downed stopped playing a number on his synapses.

Then the speakers buzzed slightly, and there was a weird scraping sound. Stan stood up, walking towards his window, walking out of the cameras range. Cartman glared at the screen, impatiently rapping his knuckles against the desk. This was all a bit fucked up, and Cartman really wanted to know what the hell was going on.

After a few minutes Stan walked back into shot, closely followed by Kyle. Cartman swore to himself, rolling his eyes. It made sense Stan called the whiney Jewbitch. They'd gone, what? A whole six hours without seeing each other. Lord forbid they go a whole night without _talking_! Stan crossed his room, wedging his desk chair under his door handle. Kyle was kicking off his shoes, pulling off his coat, his hat and his scarf.

"You alright?" Stan was standing right next to the microphone. Cartman smirked, at least he could hear them now.

"Yeah yeah. I'm fine."

"Had a fun night?"

Kyle made a slight motion, the camera relayed a blurry and indistinct twitch. Cartman just assumed he was shrugging. The blur had looked a bit like a shrug. "It was alright. Ate dinner, played some games with Ike. Kenny called an hour ago, asked if I wanted to hang out."

Stan appeared to straighten up, crossing his arms over his chest. "What did you say?"

"That it was way too late and I was going to bed." For a second they were silent, then Kyle gestured at Stan's stupid sash. "So, Homecoming King, huh?"

"Yup."

"Who was Queen?" Kyle paused for a heartbeat, hugging his coat. "Wendy?"

"Nup. Bebe. Only person I danced with all night."

Kyle was fidgeted slightly, clutching his coat tightly against his chest. Stan reached out, pulling it out of his grasp.

"Are you okay?" Cartman knew he'd scrimped on the bugging equipment for Stan's room, he knew he'd been cheap. He'd brought the cheap stuff for Stan, he'd been frugal so he could afford all the good stuff for Wendy. But really, the sound quality of this microphone was unforgivably deplorable. Cartman made a mental note to return it and demand a refund. Or return it and burn down the shop. Either plan worked fine.

"Yeah yeah, I'm fine."

"You're not though. Come here." Stan reached out for him, picking the crown up off his bed. Cartman deadpanned a frown at the screen. This was all kinda faggy.

Kyle took a step backwards, backing himself up against the wall. "What are you doing?"

"Nothing, just come _here_!"

Kyle shook his head, pressing himself against the plaster. Laughing softly, Stan caught him, pulling him closer, forcing the crown onto his head. Raising an eyebrow at the screen, Cartman shook his head. This was all very faggy.

"Dude, what are you _doing_?" At least they stayed near the microphone, at least Cartman could hear what they were saying.

"I'm coronating you. I abdicate. Now you're the _King_!"

"What if I don't _want_ to be the King?"

"You _have_ to be King. You're the next in line my throne!"

"Except I'm _not_."

"Except you _are_, because I'm the King and I decree it!"

"God, you're such a fucking _tit_."

Laughing quietly, Stan wrestled him to the bed, pulling him out of the microphones range. The way they were sitting, the angle the camera, it sort of made it look like they were _kissing_.

Cartman blinked. Because they were kissing. They were very obviously, absolutely undeniably, kissing. For a second he just sat there, frowning at the screen. Then he zoomed the camera in. They were kissing, they were graphically, graphically kissing. They were doing more then kissing, Stan was pulling off Kyle's shirt, Stan was pinning him against the mattress, Stan was trailing kisses down his chest, Stan was _undoing his_ _belt_.

Not that Kyle was complaining. No, he really wasn't complaining. He was biting his wrist in a vaguely futile effort to mute how much he wasn't complaining.

Cartman felt compelled to watch them, watch his best friends get naked, his mouth agog, his eyes glued to the screen. It was kisses and touches and rubs and caresses, it brutal, nauseating, absolutely _volatile_; but he couldn't physically look away. It just kept on going and going, _they_ kept on going and going. It got _worse_, it got _graphic_, they got naked, they rutted and bucked. They did _everything_, they did _anything_, and Cartman just watched it, unable to pull his eyes away.

And minute after minute passed, an hour, maybe more. Then it was over, and they were locked together, snoozing, naked, pale limbs entwined. Stan was leaning against his headboard, Kyle was bucketed between his thighs. Stan was gently stroking his wiry hair, rubbing his exposed side, the slight, rhythmical motions flickering like static across the screen. He was whispering, or singing, or humming or something, the microphone couldn't pick up anything more detailed then a low whine. Kyle shifted, curling himself against Stan, pressing himself against his chest. Stan just pressed a kiss against his head, nuzzling his face into the wiry red hair. Cartman just leant forward, clicking off the monitor.

On the adjacent screen, Wendy twitched and writhed in her sleep, her slight chest rising and falling restlessly. Cartman just sat there, staring at a sleeping Wendy, trying to force the images of Stan and Kyle out his mind. He felt dirty, gutted, hollow. They'd always made jokes, he'd always made jokes, but jokes were _jokes_. This, this was, something indescribable. He sort of felt like a guy who'd ordered a Quarter Pounder, only to be given a Big Mac. A Big Mac was still tasty, it was still nice and all that, but he didn't really want it, it wasn't what he _ordered_. And he wanted what he'd _ordered_.

He _could_ use this, he could easily use this. It'd take five minutes to destroy Stan and Kyle, he could blackmail them, he could hold them to ransom, get them to bend over backwards for him. He could use this to make them beg, he could use this to force them to their knees. But he didn't _want_ to blackmail them, he didn't want to hurt or destroy them. Not this week, not _today_. _Today_ he wanted to hurt _Wendy_, blackmail and destroy _Wendy_. This _thing_, this, this indescribable _thing_, it was dynamite. Pure, unadulterated dynamite.

It was just wired up to the wrong fucking building.

Exhaling, Cartman rubbed his face, running his pudgy fingers though his hair. This _thing_, this awful, unholy _thing_, it had _potential_. If he planned it carefully, if he set it up just right, if he set it up perfect, if he built her up just high enough, if he made the fall explosive, he might just be able to use this. If he couldn't attack Wendy head on, if he couldn't glean any dirt on her, he could still orchestrate a sideswipe, cut her off at the sides. He could still embarrass her. He could still _destroy_ her. But this way, this way would have casualties, crossfire, this way would have _carnage_.

Cartman smiled, he smiled an awful, _awful_ smile. Something was formulating in his mind, something brilliant. This could work. Carnage was good. Carnage was _always_ good.

* * *

><p>AN – You know how it goes, you wait ages for some plotstuff, then a ton of it comes along at once! Anyhoo, thank you thank you thank you sososomuches for reading and for favouriteing and for all the lovely stuff, I hope you's liking and enjoying itit and stuff. Many many moonfulls of superawesome thank you thank yous for the lovely fluffy awesome reviews, is so so nice and lovely and shineyshiney bright! Loves loves love!

And Gingersexual, yay! Am sosolotofso glad you like it! Am glad we share brainwaves! Brainwaves! I just, I just can't perceive Kyle as dainty or cutesy or twiggy. I mean, he's from New Jersey! His mother's Mrs. Broflovski! _Mrs. Broflovski_! She's like, the anti-dainty cute twiglet! Oyoy loves.

And Savannah, I'm glad you had some fun, as much fun as was possible, at least =) And being short is funfun. Except for when taller people (including my little brother) stand like, _right_ in front of you and look over your head and are all like "Where'd you go? I can't see you? Were are you?" And you just want to knee them in the crotch.

Unless they only do this to me, in which case, boo. Ayay, loves loves!


	10. How Is That Ironic?

"If I hire five, what deal can you cut me?" A thin, high voice answered, warbling off a list of transport costs and food bills. Cartman grunted angrily, running his hand through his hair. "You're breakin' my balls here, Paul. I need a better deal, a better _price_. It's good business I'm offering you Paul, good business indeed." Pausing for a second, Cartman narrowed his eyes, unimpressed with high-pitched prattling from man on the other end of the line. "No Paul, no no no. That's no good. Half that number, then we'll start talking." The prattling became pressured, even more desperate. Cartman exhaled, vaguely irritated. "Listen, I'm going to call you back in an hour. If you've sorted your figures out by then, we might be able to do a deal. Until then, you're just wasting my time!"

Pursing his lips, he hung up, cutting Paul off mid sentence. Picking up another pamphlet, he began to dial, pen poised and ready above a sheet of notepaper. Whilst waiting for someone to answer, he narrowed his eyes at his screens, watching Wendy flicker across the monitor. She must be doing her English homework or something, she was pacing across her room, skimming through a beat-up copy of _Romeo and Juliet_.

After ten irritating rings, and some violent teeth grinding from Cartman, someone finally answered the phone.

"Hello, Barry's Discount Party Warehouse, how can I help?"

"Hello, I'm calling up to enquire about decorations for an event I'm throwing next weekend. I was wondering if you could help me?"

"We certainly, Mr…"

"Cartman.

"Ah, Eric! It's wonderful to hear from you again! It's been so long!"

Cartman frowned, glaring at his wall. Repeat business meant better discounts, but it also meant overly friendly familiarity with the staff. And Cartman hated friendly staff. Nevertheless, he powered though it, if he acted nice enough he might get a case of streamers thrown in pro bono. "Yes Barry! Hi! It has been a while, I must admit."

"How've you been?"

"I've been good, good. I need some decorations though, I was wondering if you could help?"

"Of course I can help you Eric! What's the occasion this time? Another parade? Another intervention? Another leaving party? Birthday party? Another wake?"

Cartman twisted his lip. Barry's overly cheerful, overly friendly attitude was painfully grating. It was a little bit like talking to Butters. "It's for a street party Barry. A big street party. Maybe even another carnival, if I can get the elephants sorted out."

"A carnival! How wonderful! Will it be another chili-themed celebration? Will you be going for the yellow banners and bright balloons again?"

"No no, it's something _better_ then chili celebration this time. Something far, far more volatile then chili."

"Oh how fun!" Cartman winced. The cheerfulness was beginning to make his stomach ache. He made a mental note to punch Butters the next time he saw him. "So, what are you looking for?"

For a second Cartman thought, absent mindedly sucking on the end of his pen. "Balloons, of course. Banners, streamers, confetti… And glitter. Lots and lots of glitter."

"Lots of glitter, of course, no problem. And your colour scheme?"

"Maybe… Maybe pink. Either pink, or rainbow. Or both, a mixture of the two. Pink banners and rainbow flags. We'll see what we can do."

"Ah I _see_. You're throwing this party for a _lady_ then?" Naïve old Barry, stupid, overtly friendly, naïve old Barry.

Cartman's lips twisted into a smirk. He watched Wendy pause for a second, crossing her arms as she looked at the ceiling, frowning as she pondered something. The importance of duality in the play, the dramatic structure of the text . Mercutio's relationship with Romeo. "Yes, you could say that, I guess. I suppose I _am_ doing all this for a lady. I very, very _special_ lady."

"Well, she sounds like a very lucky girl."

"Oh, she's the _luckiest_."

Someone was clopping down the stairs, quick and rhythmical. Frowning, Cartman spun round, glaring as Kenny trotted nonchalantly into the basement.

"Hey Eric, whatcha doi…" He trailed off once he spotted the stacks and stacks of monitors, screen on top of screen flickering away. Cartman's mom had told him he was 'playing CIA', but this, this was something else. Narrowing his eyes, Kenny glanced across the cold cement floor, eyes transfixed to the screens. Hissing though his teeth, Cartman tried to shoo him away, phone still pressed firmly against fat ear. Barry was rattling off lists of pink and rainbow coloured decorative items, flags, streamers, bunting, asking Cartman what his fancy.

Kenny just stood there, mouth open, eyes wide. He was watching Wendy, watching her pace backwards and forwards across her room, watching her carefully flicking though her book. "Jesus Christ Eric. One of these days you're going to find yourself strapped to a gurney, imprisoned in a Perspex cube…"

"I'm on the _phone_ Kenny! _Go_ _away_!" Cartman hissed it, careful to cover the receiver's mouthpiece. Barry was still listing products. He'd moved on to the balloon selections. He was listing every shape, size, make and colour he had in stock.

Kenny didn't go away. Kenny did the exact opposite of going away. He walked round the monitors, stepping across the cement floor to a rickety old coffee table, a coffee table that had been overloaded with papers and shoved into a corner. Cartman rolled his eyes, cursing under his breath. "Listen, Barry, I'll leave you to do a quick stock check, alright? You price me up some streamers, some balloons, a few banners, a little bit of that pink bunting, you get all that sorted and I'll call you back tonight, alright? Alright. Bye Barry!" With that, Cartman clicked off, dropping the phone back on the desk, spinning round to glower at Kenny.

Across the room, Kenny began to fan out a stack pamphlets, running his fingers across the glossy photos of marquees and clowns and _elephants_.

"What are you _planning_, Eric?"

"Revenge, Kenny."

"What _kind_ of revenge, Eric?"

"That's none of your business, Kenny."

"You're not going to throw another Chili-Con-Carnival, are you? Because Wendy's vegetarian and she _knows you_, if you offered her a bowl of chili, she sucker punch your crotch." He paused for a second, biting his lower lip. "Besides, it'd seem awfully like you actually _were_ loosing your touch if you had to revert to re-runs and repeats."

Cartman narrowed his eyes, pulling himself out of his chair and lumbering across the basement. Kenny took a worried step back, but Cartman ignored him, instead choosing to snatch the stack of pamphlets up off the table, clutching them possessively against his chest. "I'm not throwing another Chili-Con-Carnival, not again. I'm _not_ loosing my touch Kenny! What I've got planned, what I've got planned is _better_, _bigger_, what I've got planned is _brilliant_. I'm going to _destroy_ her Kenny, I'm going to destroy her in a way she never saw coming. Just you _wait_!"

"I've been waiting for a week, Eric. You've done absolutely nothing besides _mildly irritate her_. Fuck, I _mildly irritate her_, so that's hardly and achievement!"

"Well Kenny, _just you wait_! I can guarantee that by this time next week, by this time next week shit will have gone_ down_!"

Kenny just rolled his eyes, stretching out his shoulder blades. "Whatever Eric. You keep bigging all this revenge shit up, but you never actually _do _anything. You're all sock and no peenie, in my opinion."

Glowering, Cartman tightened his grip on the pamphlets, crumpling the paper with his tubby fingers. "What the fuck are you doing here anyway, ghettotit? Shouldn't you be out scoring crack and stealing cars?"

"Nah, I finished my chores this morning. I was just wondering if you wanted to play some videogames or something? I'm _bored_, lardass"

"I'm _busy_ po'boy. Go away and bother Stan or something."

The corner of Kenny's lip quirked, drooping slightly. Exhaling, he threw himself onto a chair, crossing his legs and interlacing his fingers. "I _can't_. He's taken Kyle camping up nearNorth Park. They left this morning."

Cartman snorted, tapping a number into his phone. "_Camp_ing. How ironic."

"Ironic? How is that _ironic_?"

"It just _is_."

Kenny frowned, giving Cartman a condescending look. "I don't think you quite understand what _irony_ is, Cartman."

"I understand the concept of _irony_ just fine, po'boy! Now would you _please_ get the fuck out of my basement and let me get back on with my work? I've got _phone calls_ to make!"

"What if I don't _want_ to?" Kenny said it petulantly, his blue eyes flashing as he crossed his scrawny legs. Cartman felt his cheeks flush with anger.

"Well, let me put it this way. You can either leave _right now_, unblooded, with the correct number of holes in you, or you can wait here whilst I go get one of Jimbo's _guns_."

"I dunno, it might be quite _fun_ to have a new hole put in me. I'm so _bored_ playing with the ones I already have."

"I swear to God Kenny, I swear to God…"


	11. Even If It's A Butterfly?

"If I get sick, I'm going to _disembowel_ you."

Stan ignored him, frowning slightly, straightening up. He was trying (somewhat unsuccessfully) to hammer down the tent pegs, fighting to force them through the frozen ground, struggling to jam them though the two feet of fresh snow. Kyle was watching him from the car, the heaters whacked up on full, the engine running flat out.

They'd briefly contemplated screwing the camping idea, forgoing the tent and checking into a budget motel instead. As tempting as running water and central heating was, they'd had to admit that nothing, _nothing_, looked sleazier then slinking off to a budget motel room alone, under the cover of darkness, with no clear cause or purpose. If anyone, _anyone_ saw them, they'd be done for. Besides, Kyle had serious doubts about the hygiene practices in such hospitality establishments, and remained convinced he'd catch hepatises if he so much as looked at the bed throw in the wrong way.

At least with camping there was an automatic air of heterosexuality. It sort of didn't matter that they were two strapping, lascivious lads sharing a tent, alone, in the middle of a secluded forest campsite, halfway up a secluded mountain. The mixture of campfires and rocks and rugged elemental exposure seemed to counteract the whole Brokeback feel of the endeavour.

Exhaling, Stan bent back down, straightening up one of the pegs.

"You're not going to get sick Kyle. You're wearing like, _thirty_ layers. Quite frankly, I'm amazed you can still bend your limbs under all that fucking _fabric_."

"Dude, it's like, _thirty _degrees out here! Just imagine how cold it'll be when the fucking _sun_ goes down! I'm _going _to get sick!"

"Look, I know it's not _ideal_, but dude, you won't get sick! I _promise _you, it'll be _fun_."

Kyle sighed, glaring disbelievingly at him, crossing his arms across his chest. Stan pulled a face, tugging cautiously to check one of the pins. "Look dude, the sooner I finish hammering down these fucking tent pegs, the sooner the _real_ fun can begin. So how 'bout getting out the fucking car and, you know, _helping_ me."

Exhaling throatily, Kyle rested his chin on the rolled down window, kneeling awkwardly on the drivers seat. "I hate the outside."

"I know you do precious. I know you do." Stan looked down, sighing slightly as he hammered in the last peg. "But hey, you never seemed to mind a good romp about in the snow when we were younger, did you?"

"Yeah? Well I'm not sixteen anymore Stan."

"You're not sixty either Ky, a little cold ain't gonna kill ya. Besides Kyle, you've enough padding to keep warm. Trust me."

"Perhaps I wasn't intending on sleeping _fully-fucking-dressed_ Stan!"

"Perhaps I wasn't referring to your _clothes_, Kyle."

Kyle narrowed his eyes, crossing his arms across his chest. "What exactly are you trying to insinuate ?"

"Either something fairly insulting, or something a little sweet and slightly dirty." Stan shot him a cocksure grin, stomping down on one of the tent pegs. "I'll let you decide."

Kyle just flipped him off, sighing slightly. "I still think I'm going to be fucking _freezing_."

"You'll be fine. I'll keep you _warm_. I promise."

"What about bears?"

Stan held up a finger, before disappearing round the back of the car. He reappeared a minute clutching a shotgun. Kyle jerked backwards, nearly falling off the seat.

"My uncle gave it to me for my birthday."

"Jesus Christ dude! You brought a fucking _gun _on our camping trip?"

"Relax Ky. I know how to use it. If anything tries to eat us, I'll just shoot it."

"Dude, don't be _stupid_! You couldn't even shoot a fucking _butterfly_!

"Why would I _want_ to shoot a butterfly? That's just killing for killings sake! I'd find it far easier to shoot a bear or something." Kyle deadpanned him a look, still inching away from the gun. "Fine, maybe not. But I promise you, if anything so much as looks at you the wrong way, _I'll shoot it_, okay?"

"Even if it's a butterfly?"

"What is this vendetta you have against fucking _butterflies _Ky?"

Kyle just muttered something under his breath, burying his face into his arm. Stan just rolled his eyes, dropping the shotgun back in the boot, returning his focus to the last tent peg. They only had a few hours left before it started to get dark, and he really needed to get the fire going. The tent was supposed to be up by now, the fire was supposed to be kindling. Had they not stopped off at that rest stop on the drive over, had they not stopped off for that prolonged grope in the secluded aria of the car park, they might not be in quite such a bind now.

Biting his lip, Stan began clipping together the tubing, fighting to thread it through the tent. It was ridiculously fiddly, and ridiculously complex. After ten long minutes spent trying unsuccessfully to force the aluminium though a narrow pocket in the canvas, Stan grunted, cursing bitterly as he kneaded his eyes with his palm.

"Look, Kyle, will you just _get out of the fucking car_ and help me erect this fucking tent?"

"Christ Stan, keep up with _that_ attitude and I won't be helping you erect _anything_ this weekend."

"I'm-I'm _sorry_. But could you _please_ get out here and fucking help me?"

"No."

"Why?"

"You were a _scout_. You know how to do all this…" He waved his hand across the mess of creased tent and tangled up tubing. "All this rugged outdoorsy stuff. It's your _forté_."

"Dude, you were a scout too!"

"I was a _Jewscout_. It's entirely different."

"Oh, how?"

"Dude, all we did was make little sculptures out of soap and eat carrot cake. We just sat around and sang. We didn't actually _learn_ anything." Kyle paused, resting his chin on his forearm. "My mom still has that macaroni menorah picture I made. She stuck it on the fridge. It's tacked up next to all my finger-painted Stairs of David."

"Kyle, that's _lovely_, but _please_ turn of the engine and get out of the car! You're costing me a fortune in petrol! Keep this up and we won't have enough left for the drive _home_."

"So? We can stop of at a gas station and get some more. It's not like it really _matters_."

Stan pursed his lips, deadpanning a frown at him. "Well how about you get out the car and start making the fire then?"

"And why on earth would I want to make a _fire_?"

"Because the sooner we make a fire, the sooner we can have _smores_."

"What is it with you and always trying to bribe me with _food_? Seriously Stan, it's like, what the fuck?"

Stan grunted, forcing another length of tubing though the tent. "You're a logical person Ky, but don't even try pretend you're not easily overruled by your heart and your stomach."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"It means Cartman once won you over with a bunch of French fries and a hot tub full of gravy!"

Kyle flushed, pursing his lips. "That… There were extenuating circumstances-It-It wasn't because of the fucking _hot tub_ Stan!"

Exhaling, Stan rubbed his hand across his face. The tent was very nearly done; it just needed to be latched down. "Look, just please get out of the car Ky, yeah? Please?" Kyle narrowed his eyes, shaking his head. Stan just sighed softly, holding open his arms, biting his lip. "Please Ky?" He was watching him imploringly, waiting, pleading. After a minute, Kyle just sighed, clicking off the engine and climbing out the Chevy. Smiling slightly, Stan reached out, catching his waist, pulling him into a firm hug.

"I told you," Stan murmured into his hair, pressing a kiss to the side of his head, "I told you were ruled by your heart."

"Don't give yourself airs Stanley. I did it for the _smores_."

* * *

><p>AN - Jeez, hard chapter was hard. Having never been camping _in my life_, a fair bit of Googleing was required. Anyhoo, thank you soso much for reading, hope you is likelikeing it. And many many many uber thank you thank you thank you's for re-re-re-reviewing! So perfectly fluffy lovely thank you thank you sparkles.

Next chapter might be more Brokeback little camping scene, but might not. Story is being tricky to write write hnnnh. Hopes hopes no-one minds a slight detour away from the plot for some fluffy camping smut? Umhp.

And Savannah, You're talkin' to a someone who got 30 Seconds To Mars' Latin motto tattooed on her wrist (when I was sixteen no less. My, I was a cocksure little teenager) so I really don't think it's stupid at all =P Besides, the whole "eternal lie" quote was originally written by H.P. Lovecraft (I think, unless whoever it was who told me that was lying, in which case, boo to them, nyah) so it does have it's standing in literacy history! Yay! Fluff! And I like tattoos that have a little humour behind them. They're meaningful =). And if you get it on your shoulder blade or back, you can easily cover it up for, like, jobs and stuff. So that's handy, I guess guess candyfloss! I know I have to wear a really thick bangle whenever I go to important events, which can be a tad cumbersome... Probably didn't think that one though as carefully as I should have, hmmm.


	12. Just Have Faith, Yeah?

Sure, the lack of running water was a bitch, the lack of electricity, the lack of heat, the snow, the wind, the having nothing more then a pan and a camping stove to cook with, yeah, sure, it wasn't ideal. But Kyle had to admit Stan had a point; camping certainly had its perks. The smores were nice a nice touch, the peace and quiet was definitely a plus. And the seclusion, the solitude and privacy, well, that really was second to none.

The sun was steadily setting, and the wind had picked up, picked up into a vaguely ominous, whispering howl. The temperature had dropped sharply, it was threatening to snow, and the campfire was dwindling down on it's last log, slowly shrinking away from the wind. But none of that mattered. None of that mattered because Kyle was warm, flushed, and intensely excited. Because Kyle was kneeling over his lap, gripping his shoulders, running his hands round down back. Because Kyle was gripping the hem of his t-shirt, pulling it upwards. Because Kyle was whimpering excitedly, whimpering fiercely, making those certain little noises that only ever boded really good things.

Stan was trying to keep him steady, one hand on his dangerously low on his back, creeping steadily lower yet, the other tangled into his hair, desperately trying to keep him still. They were kissing, intensely, excitedly, messily kissing, all tongues and licks and gentile, careful bites. Kyle was grinding against him, slowly and firmly, very, very unrhythmically, very, very lasciviously; Stan felt himself inadvertently grip at Kyle's shirt-covered waist, his fingers digging into his gentle side.

This was why he'd dragged Kyle camping. They could do anything they wanted, they could be as loud, as reckless, as experimental as they wanted in a tent. They didn't have to worry about anything, about anyone. He felt Kyle murmur something against him, telling him something, something he couldn't hear. Stan just frowned, accidentally skewing the rhythm of the kiss. His phone was ringing, vibrating against his leg. He was trying to ignore it, trying to concentrate on pulling Kyle's shirt off, but he couldn't. He couldn't just let it ring. Grunting slightly, he pulled back, reluctantly pulling away. Kyle just groaned, letting his head fall against Stan's shoulder, cursing into Stan's neck.

"Why can't you just _let it ring_?"

"It could be my dad. There could be a riot. He could have started it."

"Dude, if there's a riot, your dad _definitely_ started it."

Smiling slightly, Stan slipped a hand round his back, holding Kyle steady as he jimmied his phone out his pocket. For a second he just frowned, narrowing his eyes at the screen.

"It's _Wendy_."

"Oh Christ, I swear to _Abraham_ Stan, if you answer that phone I'll-"

"I'm not going to answer the phone Kyle, jeez, unbunch your _panties_. I just… I just wonder what she wants."

"I really don't care. Send her to voicemail."

"Maybe I-"

"Send her to voicemail or I get off your lap."

"You're the boss."

Stan declined the call, carelessly tossing the phone on the blanket next to him, carefully returning his attention to Kyle, carefully slipping his hands right down Kyle's back. Grinning, Kyle began to pull down the collar of Stan's shirt, wetly biting at his collarbone, firmly leaving his mark. Humming slightly, Stan drove his face into Kyle's hair, absently kissing the side of his head, attentively groping him.

A few minutes later, Stan's phone beeped again. Kyle froze, pulling up. "Wendy again?"

"Probably." Stan reached down for the phone, glairing at the screen. "Text. Apparently she wants me to call her. Apparently we need to talk about my 'behaviour last night'. Apparently it was 'deplorable'. I think I'm in trouble."

"Well, that's a mood killer."

"What? My behaviour at Homecoming? The fact that I'm in trouble?"

"No. You're girlfriend." Exhaling throatily, Kyle pulled away, gracelessly de-straddling Stan's lap, gracelessly crouching to avoid brushing his head against the tent.

"In my defence, I didn't expect Wendy to actually want to _talk _to me and shit. I'd thought it'd be like it was before, you know? Long periods with no communication, punctuated by occasional bouts of nausea. I didn't think I'd actually have to _interact _with her. I didn't think she'd dog me like this."

"Dude, you're not eight years old anymore. What can I say? Welcome to the realties of having a girlfriend."

Pursing his lips, Kyle picked up his jumper, pulling it back over his head. Stan just frowned. Kyle putting on more clothes was sort of the opposite of what he wanted. "What are you doing?"

"I'm getting ready to go to bed, what's it look like?"

"But we were in the middle of something."

"Active verb in that sentence being 'were'."

"Oh, come on, you can't stop _now_. Dude, seriously!"

"I'm sorry Stan, but your girlfriend's sort of a mood killer."

"She's not _really_ my girlfriend Ky, stop _calling_ her that. We've been through this, like, a _million _times, just come on!"

Kyle sighed, pulling on his jacket. "Don't _hyperbole_ Stan."

Exhaling, Stan rubbed his face. "Look, it's just until we leave this town, yeah? It's just until we get out of South Park."

Kyle's lip quirked into a sad smile. A heartbreakingly defeated, sad little smile. "Why do I get the feeling all this is going to end up being one of _those _things, Stan?"

Frowning, Stan crossed his arms, resting his elbows on his knees. "What do you mean?"

"When we get to collage, it's gonna become 'just until we've graduated'. When we've graduated, it's gonna become 'just until we've got jobs'. Then it'll become 'just until we've got a mortgage', then 'just until we've got things sorted', then 'just until I get a promotion', then 'just until my divorce is finalised', 'just until the kids are old enough'. And it'll always be 'just until'. It'll never _actually_ happen."

Biting his lip, Stan reached out, trying to catch his arm. Kyle just shifted out of his way, backing away from the grasp. "It's _just until we leave South Park_ dude. I promise you, it's _just until then_. Don't _worry_."

"Don't keep telling me not to worry. I _am_ worried. I'm more worried _now_ then I ever was before."

"So what? You want to come out?"

"_No_! But dude, there's a difference between not wanting to parade about on a pride float and getting a fucking _beard_ Stan."

"Dude, if you really want to come out, we'll just fucking come out! Alright?"

"I don't _want_ to come out, that's not what I'm trying to say! I just… I don't see why you're so _scared_ too."

"I'm not _scared_. I'm just _cautious_."

"No, cautious would be taking precautions. Actively asking your ex-girlfriend back out so you can appear straight, I mean, _dude_, that's something _else_."

"What's brought this on Kyle?

Kyle sighed, kneading his eyes with the palm of his hand. "You brought me camping. You took me halfway up a mountain so you could feel safe doing…" Kyle gestured lamely, wavering his hand between them, "Doing _this_. Dude, have you actually seen _Brokeback Mountain_? Not just the rough, spit lube bit, but like, the _whole thing_."

"Of course I've seen it! _You_ made me watch it! There was some cowboys, some sheep, some heartbreak. It was all _very_ depressing."

Biting his lip, Kyle looked down, shifting slightly. He was crouching awkwardly on the camping mat, his legs were beginning to cramp. "I'm just worried you're in too deep Stan. You seem to be treading that dangerous line between keeping the private, well _private_ and actively closeting yourself. I'm, I'm just wondering how _okay_ you _actually_ are with all this."

Stan pulled a face, cracking his knuckled. "I'm-I'm perfectly okay with it! I'm perfectly okay with _this_! I'm perfectly okay with being in l-in this thing with _you_! The only thing I'm not okay with is _South Park_! Dude, you never know what this town's gonna do!"

"Christ Stan, if the retarded excuse for townsfolk didn't lynch Mr. Garrison, they're hardly likely to lynch us!"

"Mr. Garrison didn't have my dad in the centre of things, getting everyone pissed off, stirring everything up!"

Kyle just grimaced, turning his head away, rubbing his hand across his ribs. Stan lowered his eyebrows, frowning. "What's the matter?"

"I dunno." Kyle bit his lip, still rubbing his side. "I feel weird."

"Oh Christ, you're not _actually_ getting sick are you?"

"No, it's something else. Something doesn't feel right."

"You're just, you're winding yourself up Ky. It's probably just stress or something, alright?"

"It doesn't feel like stress."

"What does it feel like?"

"I… I don't know."

"Just, just c'mere. You're freaking me out."

"I'm freaking _myself _out."

Reaching out, Stan caught Kyle's arms, pulling him into a hug. Biting his lip, Stan pressed Kyle against his chest, resting his head against the nook of his neck as he worriedly rubbed his back. Exhaling, he felt Kyle burrow himself closer, his hands gripping fistfuls of the front of his t-shirt, his face driven firmly against his collarbone.

"Look," Stan murmured it, his voice low and rough, "look, Ky. It'll all come good in the end, just... Just have faith, yeah?"

* * *

><p>AN – In my defence, it was supposed to be fluffy. I'm not quite sure what happened. I got writers block, and it all went to heckers and angsty uurgh, and I am in deep hate yurck. Oy vey.

Anyhoo, thank you thank you soso muches for reading, and for sticking with it, despite the fact that I've seen slugs progress faster then this plot, and and an uber super duper mega thank you thank you thank you for the reviews. They really really keep me actually writewritewriteing 3

And Savannah, don't don't worry, this is the last pure Style bit for a few chapters at least. Until after Cartman's big plot climax. And yup, it is. This entire story is based of that one line from _NOESTLWF_. But then, _U.S. Route 285_ was based off one line from _NOESTLWF_ too. And that all turned out okay. So heyhey. And daymn, sounds like an epic Necronomicon subplot story. Dark soulless Kenny sounds badass (quite literally), so different from his usual fanfic depicted carefree-ness. And it says "Provehito in Altum" (Launch forth into the deep/Rocket into highness/Reach for the hights depending on how you translate Latin, 'coz Latin is a tricky bitch like that). =3

And Gingersexual, nupsy wupsy, I don't don't think so. I think this is the last longshot story in this weird little trilogy series. I might reference this whole fluffy world thing in oneshots, but I don't think there'll be another longshot story in it. My next story story will probably see me age them past school/education to like, 25+ or something. A case of 'And now for something completely different' or something! And as for all the candyfloss (British-isms FTW) why, I obtain it from Imaginationland of course! =P


	13. Are You Going To?

Cartman was a damn good actor, he knew that much for sure. In its base form, acting is simply lying with a little bit of artistic flare, and considering no-one could lie quite as brilliantly, quite as horrifically, quite as awfully, cruelly, deviously as Cartman, truth was he could successfully rival a Canadian Shakespearian master with his skill of the craft. It'd been his acting skills that had seen him convince Butters to hide away in a bomb-shelter, seen him convince Kyle that he actually _cared_ about Kenny, seen him destroy Scott Tenorman, seen him wriggle and slip out of all manner of tricky situations.

It wasn't hard for him to pretend like everything was normal. Sure, he'd occasionally smirk to himself, visualising his guttering revenge. Sure, he'd occasionally chuckle to himself, visualising Wendy's downfall, her desolation, her destruction, her tasty, tasty tears of utterly woeful _misery_. Sure, he'd occasionally face bouts of irrepressible nausea, every time he accidentally visualised the burning metal images of Stan and Kyle's hideous crime against nature; but for the most part, Carman acted just the same as he always did, adamantly keeping his cards clutched firmly against his chest.

He'd spent the weekend organising thing, haggling, ordering, hiring. Sitting in his basement, the phone glued to his ear, his eyes glued to the screens. It made it all the more sweeter, watching Wendy, watching her pace her room, do her homework, watching her trying to call Stan, watching her bitch to Bebe. It made it all the more sweeter, watching Wendy live her life whilst he worked to destroy it. Whilst he worked to destroy _her_.

Cartman had been the first out of English when the bell rang, and first in the canteen for lunch. He tried to take his mind of the nauseating mental images Stan and Kyle had left burnt onto his retinas by buying twice as much food as usually did, overloading his tray with mounds upon mounds of generic, amorphic, sludge.

By the time Kenny finally made it to lunch, Kyle was already placidly working his way though a plate of fries, elbows propped on the table, a book clutched open in his left hand. Stan was already placidly pulling chunks off his sandwich, absently watching Kyle read. Eric was already greedily inhaling his food, his eyes fixed to his plates, back hunched over the table. Kenny pursed his lips in disgust, sliding into the bench next to him, dropping his own pitiful sustenance on the table.

"So how's the big revenge plot coming, Eric?"

Cartman struggled to swallow, gulping down a monstrous mouthful of mashed potato and macaroni cheese. "Very, very well, I'll have you know. This, Kenny, this is what most people would call _the calm before the storm_."

"No Cartman, this, this is what most people call _lunch period_."

Carman narrowed his eyes, glaring across the table. "Oh, you think you're so fucking _clever_, don't you fag?"

Kyle cleared his throat, eyes still fixed on his book. "I do think I'm a little bit witty, yes."

"Oh, just you wait, just you wait. I'm going bring you to your _knees_!"

Kyle didn't even look up from his book, carefully licking his thumb so he could turn the page. "You mean in the same way you've brought Wendy to her knees? You know, by doing _absolutely nothing to her_?"

Pursing his lips, Cartman gulped down another mouthful of his lunch, still glaring across the table. "Oh, just you wait Kyle, _just you fucking wait_!"

"Well, you'll forgive me for not holding my _breath_, Cartman."

Cartman flipped him off, Kyle didn't even blink, eyes still fixed to his book. Exhaling, Kenny crossed his arms across his chest, glancing towards Stan. "Where's Wendy anyhow? I thought you were having lunch with her today?"

Stan sighed, carelessly toying with a chunk of sandwich crust, scattering crumbs across the table top. "Wendy's not talking to me at the moment. She's decided I need time to 'think about my deplorable behaviour at the dance' and 'bewail my rotten attitude'. She doesn't think I'm taking this relationship _seriously_. She's wants me to apologise."

"Are you going to?"

"Going to what?"

"Apologise?"

"Yeah, I guess. Just not right now. I'm sort of enjoying the peace."

Kenny frowned, carelessly handling his water bottle. "You really should apologise to her."

"Why?"

"Because she's right. You spent all of Homecoming walled up in a corner with a face like fucking thunder. You refused to dance with her, fuck, hardly even _spoke_ to her. You were an _awful _date. I'm supprised she didn't _slap _you."

"I was being _broody_. Dark and broody. Girls love dark and broody."

Kyle raised his eyebrows, glancing up from his book. "Dude, you seriously need to stop going to the Brontë sisters for dating advice, yeah?"

Stan quirked an eyebrow, turning to face him. "So, what? You think I should apologise to her too?"

"_God no_. I just enjoy being factious."

Kenny just smiled slightly, glancing down at his hands. "How was camping?"

"Cold, miserable, windy, snowy, wet. And had to I spend the night sleeping on a particularly jagged rock. I think it's left a dint in my hipbone."

Stan just shook his head, smiling slightly. "It was _fine_, and there was no rock. You're just being precious."

"I'm not being _precious_. There was _something_ digging into my hipbone all night! I've got the fucking bruise to prove it!"

Across the table, Cartman choked, cursing violently. Kyle pulled a disgusted face, Stan just ignored him. "You probably just slept funny Ky. I checked the ground for rocks before I pitched the tent. I'm not an idiot. Besides, you have to admit it was calm and _peaceful_. And the smores _were_ nice."

Kyle just shrugged, smiling slightly. Across the table Cartman started, pulling his phone out his pocket. He'd been watching the conversation with such focused, narrowed eyes, he'd almost missed the fact that someone was calling him. Glaring at the screen, it flicked it open, heaving his huge bulk of the bench as he did. Kyle just frowned, watching him waddle out of the canteen, speaking animatedly into the handset. Leaving his lunch unguarded.

Kyle narrowed his eyes, watching the canteen door swing shut. Cartman never left his food unguarded. "What the fuck was _that_?"

Blinking, Stan shook his head, utilising the distraction to discreetly press his thigh against Kyle's. Exhaling, Kenny just shrugged, carefully sliding Cartman's abandoned tray across the table, glancing cautiously over his shoulder as he did.

* * *

><p>AN – Apologies apologies for the sudden little delay. I got my Uni results and was so revealed I'd passed and didn't have to repeat the year just accidentally slept for like, three days. I think I just had a mini relief induced hibernation. It was bizarre. Anyhoo, thank yous soso muches for favouriteing and reading and I hope you're enjoying it and everyeverything! And many many fluffy wonderful pillow thank yous for the lovely lovely reviews, so so wunderbar and stuff 3

And Savannah, if you do get round to watching Brokeback Mountain, just make sure you have a box of tissues or something. I swear I cried, for like, five minutes after the film ended. It was so sad =( And nah, it's nothing really fantastical or anything all that interesting, Kyle just had a bout of stress/foreboding/mini anger conniption over Wendy, you know, the usual =P And ooooh, Crucifix sounds interesting, interesting and _dark_. Dark is always good. Powerful angry Kenny sounds _scary_ =3


	14. But Who Cares?

Come Friday night, everything was ready. It'd taken Cartman all but a week to organise it all, a week of haggling, booking, a week of expenditures, a week of irritating phone calls and unconvincingly faked pleasantries. But it'd all be worth it, come the day. It'd all be worth it, to make Wendy Testaburger cry, to destroy Stan and Kyle, to prove to Kenny once and for all that he was absolutely, undeniably, wholeheartedly _not_ loosing his touch.

Cartman smirked, absently balancing a pen across his index finger, carefully lining it up just right. The Jew had got suspicious, the phone calls, the sudden exeunts, the unexplained absences, he'd got all narrow eyed and dangerously, covetously curious. But that was easily deflected, a few wide-eyed denials, a few stupid, noncommittal lies, it wasn't had to throw him off the scent. He just had to pretend it was all about Wendy, just Wendy, absolutely, completely nothing but Wendy. If there was one thing Kyle couldn't stand, it was Wendy. That silly little catamite couldn't even bear prolonged discussions about Stan's "real" girlfriend, let alone her irritating bitchy presence.

Cartman had had to play peace keeper on Wednesday. Stan still hadn't apologised, and Wendy was still PMSing about it. It'd taken all of his subversive, conniving skills to fix that one. A few whispered jibes during business class, a few knicks at Wendy's armour, teamed with a few sly comments during lunch, a few cruel digs, the sewing of the seeds of doubt in Stan's mind. He'd got the apology, the forgiveness, and he got to piss off Jew in the process.

Wavering slightly, Cartman's pen nearly fell; automatically he jerked to correct it, his heart jolting as he steadied on his finger. He'd had to correct it; he'd had to fix Stan and Wendy's pathetic little charade. Her fall would only prove detrimental if she fell from a great height. He had to build her up to knock her down, she had to think everything was perfect before he destroyed it. That was just the way it was. It wouldn't work right otherwise.

Cartman smiled, the pen still neatly poised on his finger. They'd had a 'date' tonight, a stupid, clichéd, Friday night date. A charade. Chances were he'd taken her somewhere "romantic", somewhere with bright lighting, somewhere very public. Chances were he'd taken her to the roller rink, or ice skating, or to the mall; somewhere he could stay away from her, somewhere had an excuse to resolutely not touch her, not kiss her. Just like he promised the stupid little Jew, just like he whispered down the phone before he left to pick her up.

Pursing his lips, Cartman steadied his hand, steadying the pen. Wendy'd got all dressed up, all dressed up with a slap of desperation; too much make-up, a too short skirt, too revealing, too _betraying_ to who she really was. She got all ready for him to pick her up, she made her _intentions_ clear. He'd dropped her back off a few hours later, the overpowering make-up, the too short skirt, all of it painfully untouched. He'd reluctantly kissed her on the cheek, reluctantly hugged her, he'd bid her a goodnight, and he'd retreated, leaving her standing on the doorstep, cold and alone, drenched in desperation.

She was writing in her journal now, sitting cross-legged on her duvet as she happily hummed to herself. Cartman blinked, narrowing his eyes at the screen. He'd watched her undress again, watched her get ready for bed again, watched her text someone, watched her sing to herself, he'd watched her do it all. He'd spent the last week watching her do it all. Watching her do everything. Absolutely everything.

On the adjacent screen, Stan was pinning Kyle against the mattress, one hand tangled in his hair, the other creeping up his shirt. Cartman winced in disgust, carefully keeping his pen steady, carefully keeping it balanced on his finger. Stan was sucking on Kyle's neck, tracing kisses up his jaw. They'd wedged the door shut with the chair again, just like they always did when they were alone. Cartman frowned, steadying his pen. Having already caught the matinée performance of their sordid little act, he wasn't in a rush to catch the evening show. Once the shirts came off, he'd switch the screen off. He had what he needed; he didn't need to see that again.

Shifting slightly, the pen still carefully balancing across his finger, Cartman checked the time. It was getting late, even for a Friday night, it was getting late. It was nearly time. At two in the morning his team of illegal (and cheap) Home Depot Mexicans would arrive; it wouldn't take them more then a few hours to decorate the streets, to put up the banners and bunting, to paste up the photos. At six the elephants were due, already dressed in their stupid elephant circus outfits, all ready to go. All the performers were to be ready before seven, the parade would be ready to go at eight. Cartman smiled, still toying with his pen. Everything was going to be perfect. Absolutely perfect. Absolutely, gutteringly perfect.

Laughing slightly, Cartman jerked his hand back, watching his pen clatter against the desk, watching it clatter to the floor. In less then twelve hours everything would kick off. There would be fanfares, clowns, elephants and acrobats: there would be a full on party, a street parade, a _carnival_. In less then twelve hours he'd get his revenge on Wendy Testaburger, he'd wreck her reputation, he'd _embarrass_ her, he'd _destroy _her. He'd strip her of the love of her life, he'd break her stupid little heart. Sure, there would be casualties. But who cares? So what if people got hurt? The Jew and the pussy would fall, yeah, sure, but he didn't care. It'd be quite funny really, watching those faggots live up to their reputation. He didn't care if he broke them, he'd shatter the _world_ to get his revenge. Nothing could stop him, nothing and no-one. He was unstoppable. He was a fucking _juggernaut_.

Cartman blinked. His phone was vibrating again, angrily humming against the table top. Inhaling inwardly, he narrowed his eyes, scowling at the cheap plastic cover. Cursing violently, he snatched the handset up, accepting the call, rubbing his fat fingers across his face as he greeted the prattling voice, dimly praying that the goddamn elephants were actually fucking _worth _all this.

* * *

><p>AN - Cue major plot jump to speed up story progression, because fuck was it going slow. There was too much talking, so hey, bridge to the good part. The actual carnival finally happens over the next chapters. This puts it a little past halfway mark now. Maybe even two thirds through. Maybe a little less. I'm not sure. I'm just making it up as I go along. So thank you for sticking with it, it actually really really means a whole whole lot. And super duper buper thank you's for reviewing it, it really means the whole fluffy candyfloss world. Christ yup yup!

And Gingersexual, the Kenny thing should rear its head in a little while, after the whole 'OMG outing thing' he should come into play. I'm still not sure how prominent/prevalent it will be, but I am sure there will be at least one chapter on it near the end, considering I've already got one of the final chapters partway written, but one chapter really isn't alot, so sorry, but there should be a little more too, maybe. As for how many chapters left, ech, I'm not too sure on that either. Aside from a few snippets that make up my "plan", all of this is just made up as I go along, so it's really anyone's guess. Mon Dieu, I really am awfully messy writer. And blooming heck your love life is complicated, congratz on the dramaz! Dramaz keep life _interesting_!

And Savannah, two hundred and thirty pounds at least. I always thought he'd be, like, three hundred pounds. You know, like a small elephant maybe, something horrific and obscene and wholeheartedly Cartman =P


	15. What Are You Doing?

For Kyle, it'd started with his mother. His mother's screaming, to be precise. The sound she made, it was unbelievable, _inhuman _almost, it sounded like she was getting stabbed or electrocuted or tortured or something. Kyle started himself awake, pulling himself to his feet, clumsily falling out of bed.

She was in the hallway, Kyle heard her wrench the front door open and storm outside. He heard his father follow her, calling after her, shouting something, calling to her. Calling something about him, calling foe her to calm down, Kyle wasn't sure. He couldn't really make it out through the carpet.

Blinking sleep out of his eyes, he stumbled into the hallway, very nearly tripping down the stairs. There was paper, paper everywhere. It'd been rammed clumsily though the letterbox, it was spilling out across the carpet, plastering the living room floor with grainy, low resolution images. His mom was still outside, she was still shrieking something, shrieking something against a pretty violent racket. She'd left the door wide open, the bitter, October morning wind was blowing a mixture of paper and snow across the carpet.

Shaking slightly, his heart pounding in his throat, Kyle bent down, clutching up a handful of the snow-damp sheets. They were photos, stills of him and Stan, stills of him and Stan doing something lewd, something very salacious, something very, _very _private. Blinking away the tears, trying to catch his breath, he stumbled outside, the snow freezing the soles of his feet, wetting the hems of his flannel lounge pants.

It was, it was _insanity_, utter insanity. It was loud and obtrusive, there were fanfares, acrobats, there were fucking _elephants_, fucking _elephants_ prancing down the ice covered street. Someone had laced the streetlights with bunting, hung offensive, acrid pink banners, spread glittery confetti, someone had pasted up grainy photo after photo of him and Stan doing _it_, they had covered every available service, lampposts, houses, front doors, cars, everywhere with incriminating, excruciating evidence.

His mom and dad weren't paying the parade any notice however; they were too busy staring up at the house. Squinting slightly, squinting away from the too bright morning light, Kyle jolted around, his fists still clutching the damp paper against his chest. There was a poster of him, him and Stan, a photo of them doing something pretty obscene, pretty obscene and absolutely incriminating superimposed across the front of his house. His mom was just staring at it, her mouth slightly open, her hands clasped over her chest. His dad was trying to talk to her, trying to get her to look away, trying to calm her down.

Kyle felt his heart jar, overwhelmed with nauseating mixture of fear and embarrassment. Ike was gripping at his arm, talking to him, trying to tell him something, trying to reassure him. But it wasn't working, no, it absolutely, positively wasn't working.

So Kyle did the only thing he could think to do. He ran away. The papers still clutched to his chest, his feet still numb from the snow, he ran away. He ran away and locked himself in the bathroom.

For Stan, it'd started with Kenny. Kenny practically kicking his door down, Kenny nearly dislocating his arm as he tried to wrench him out of bed. It'd been an oddly bright-eyed, a very emotional Kenny.

Stan was blinking, kneading his eyes with the palm of his hand, stumbling gracelessly to his feet. He was asking what was wrong, what had happened, he was asking if Kyle was alright. Demanding to know if Kyle was alright.

Kenny was giving him a very peculiar look, a very angry, very guttered look, his mouth slightly open, his eyes creased in pain. He was clutching a torn, dirty sheet of paper, creasing it against his chest with shaking, clenched fists. Stan blinked, narrowing his eyes. There was some God-awful racket echoing up the staircase, the sound of a circus, cheering and screeching and trumpets and thumping and music and, and what sounded vaguely like _elephants_.

Frowning slightly, Stan pushed past Kenny, elbowing open his door. Kenny had left the front door open; the wind was bowing through the doorway, causing the metal door handle to bang angrily against the wall, marring the slightly patchy paintwork. A wet flurry of snow had blown across the welcome mat, leaving slight patches of icy damp on the carpet. Biting his lip, Stan took the stars two at a time, leaping awkwardly into the hallway.

Someone had tried jammed a handful of paper through the letterbox, someone hadn't quite managed too. A clump of crumpled paper was stuck in the letterbox, jamming open the metal flap. Only a few sheets had made it to the carpet, the bitter morning wind blowing them against the wall.

Still frowning, Stan stepped over the doormat, bracing himself against the doorframe. His mom was staring at the front of the house, one arm held shakily akimbo, the other held shakily over her mouth. Behind her a bunch of scantily clad women were risking hypothermia, donning very inappropriate leotards as they back flipped down the road. They were loosely flanked by the high school marching band, a loose group of underclassmen prancing down the street in their clichéd little uniforms. Unapologetically butchering a Lady Gaga song.

Stan narrowed his eyes, his breathing quickening; someone had strung party decorations around the lampposts, someone had hung vaguely homophobic banners across the street. Someone had littered paper across the snow, sheet after sheet of muggy, wet photos. Sheet after sheet of incriminating, heart wrenching greyscale photos. It was early, really fucking early, but the sheer brute force of the noise was waking people up. The sheer brute force of the spectacle was gathering a crowd.

Shaking slightly, Stan crossed the front yard, twisting to look at the front of the house. He dimly noted that his sister was doing something to his car door, something that involved a lot of scraping and violent cursing. He dimly noted that his mom was crying quietly, hand still held over her mouth, he dimly noted it all, but he really didn't care. Gasping slightly, he clutched his arms across his chest, struggling to keep his breathing steady, struggling to keep his composure . There was a huge poster pasted across the front of his house, a huge poster of him and Kyle, a huge poster of him and Kyle doing something pretty indescribable.

For a second Stan just wondered how much damage the paste, the paste and the poster was going to do to the veneer of his house. Then his mind went blank. He was dimly aware that Kenny was grabbing his arm, dimly aware that Kenny was shaking him, asking him something, demanding something, repeating the same questions. "How could you?", "What did you do?", "What are you doing?" "Why you?", if he was demanding something new or asking the same things again and again, Stan wasn't sure. It all seemed to merge into one blaring, continuous pounding.

Eventually his mind clicked back on, eventually be began to think. Cursing violently, his heart racing, he pushed past Kenny, barging back into his house. He had absolutely no idea what to do, so he did the only thing he could think of. He ran inside and pulled on his shoes.

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><p>AN – Sorry sorry sorry for the slight slight delay, was going to write/finish/post this yesterday but my Kindle arrived and I got distracted because I'm easily distracted by new things. And flashing/colourful/shiny things. And anythings, really. I'm a very distractible person. Still, a cyber cookie to anyone who can come up for a name for said aforementioned Kindle, because it needs a new name and I'm immata blank blank uuurgh…

But hey, so starts the carnival scenes! It goes on for a few chapters (considering it's the pivotal plotstuff thing imma gonna milk milk milk it!), so heyhocandyfloss! Anyhoo, thank you thank you for read read reading, and epicly fluffywuffy wonderful thank you thank you thank you's for the lovely lovely lovely reviewies! Sososo lovely walm fluffy stuffs loves!


	16. Are You Heartbroken?

Cartman smirked slightly, tenting his fingers over his lap. Everything was perfect. It'd taken him a week, a fucking _week_, but it'd been worth it. Everything was perfect. Behind him the carnival was in full swing, the acrobats and elephants and clowns, the marching band, the performers, they were busy parading up and down the streets; the streetlights hung acid pink banners, rainbow streamers, obscene flags, the fire hydrants anchored balloons, the ground was coated with lurid pink glitter and rainbow confetti, stay fliers, torn off posters, a little bit everything mulching together on the icy ground, damp and heavy thanks to the snow. Every free surface had been pasted with small little grayscale photos, covered in incriminating evidence, obscene porn, coated in Wendy's downfall, her misery, her _heartbreak_.

It was snowing slightly, a slow flurry, cold and wet. It wasn't ideal, the weather, the two feet of snow, that was a bit of a pain, but it couldn't be helped. They just had to work around that, just shut up and get on with it. It also wasn't ideal having to work though the night, having to set everything up under the weak orange glow of the streetlights, having to set everything up in the icy cold night, yeah, it wasn't ideal. But it couldn't be helped. Besides, it'd all be worth it, it'd all be worth it, in the end

Exhaling slightly, Cartman leant back, the deck chair he was sitting on to creaking violently under his weight. He'd made sure to situate the nucleus of the carnival _here_, all the stupid tacky rides, all the illegally imported fireworks, the stupid oversized snakes, all the food stalls, the popcorn and hotdogs and candyfloss and ice-cream, they were all here. For this to work he needed everyone _here_, he needed everyone outside Wendy Testaburger's house, he needed _everyone_ to witness her shame.

It'd cost him a limb and a half, a vital fucking organ, an absolutely obscene amount of money. He'd had to liquidise several of his businesses to raise the capital, fracture his savings, beg, borrow, steal, but it was all worth it. The second he saw the look on Wendy's face, the tears in her eyes, the second he brought her too her knees, it'd all be worth it.

Upstairs Wendy's curtains twitched. Cartman blinked, leaning forwards expectantly, his fingers tensing against the edges of his canvas seat. He'd anchored his deckchair on her front lawn, he was facing her bedroom window, he'd grabbed a front row seat, all ready for the live-action show, all ready to watch the drama unfold. He'd been waiting for twenty minutes, his gloved fingers numb thanks to the cold, the deck chair creaking painfully under his weight. Quite frankly, what with the noise the spectacle behind him was generating, the noise of the band and the elephants and the screeches and screams of the crowd, he was amazed it'd taken her this long to wake the fuck up.

With a jarringly violent jerk, Wendy tore her curtains open, glaring blearily out across the mayhem. Smirking slightly, Cartman waggled his fingers at her, grinning at her painfully befuddled expression. With a flick of fabric she disappeared from the window, stalking out of sight. Cartman blinked, checking his watch: less then a minute later her front door ricochet open, and Wendy stormed out, dressing gown loosely pulled over her pyjamas, socks roughly jammed into neat little boots. Narrowing her eyes, she clasped her arms across her chest, stalking across the garden, glaring at the spectacle sprawling out in front of her. Across the street, a juggler began tossing about a bunch of steadily flaming batons, eliciting a few appreciative gasps form the steadily forming crowd.

"Cartman, what the _fuck_ is going on?"

Smiling slightly, preening slightly, Cartman slipped a hand though his hair, carefully smoothing it down into place. "Why Wendy, it's a _carnival_ of course. Surely you must know what a _carnival_ is?" Wendy glowered, Cartman smirked. "Do you like the elephants? I like the elephants. I think they're a _lovely_ touch."

Wendy shut her eyes, pained and slow. "Cartman, what the _fuck_ are you doing?"

"Oh, I'm just _watching_, you know?"

"And you have to do that on _my _lawn why?"

Cartman shrugged, shifting in the chair. "Because your lawn has the best _view_, of course."

Wendy shut her eyes, struggling to articulate her anger. "Then-Then why-why the fuck are you staring at my _fucking_ house, you _creep_?"

"Oh, I'm just admiring my handiwork, you know? I always knew I'd make a _brilliant _photographer one day."

Wendy blinked, scowling down at him. Cartman just tilted his chin up, gesturing towards the front of her house. Gesturing towards the superimposed photo of her boyfriend, her boyfriend doing something utterly _heinous_ to his best friend. Frowning bitterly, Wendy spun around, her eyes going wide, her mouth falling open. Her breath catching painfully in her chest. For a second she was silent, mouth open, eyes dancing across the paper. Cartman just smirked, rubbing his stumpy fingers together. He'd saved the best one for Wendy's house. As fun as it was destroying the Jew and the pussy, this really was all about her. It'd always all been about her. Cartman cleared his throat, heavily heaving one leg across his lap. "I really feel like I caught their very _best_ angle, don't you think? They're so simple, so nauseatingly _graphic_, you know?"

Wendy scoffed, taking a step away from her house, her hands gripping nervously at the hem of her nightshirt. "Seriously Cartman? That's the _best_ you can do? Plastering a _photoshopped_ photo across the front of my house? That's _it_?"

"As flattered as I am, you know, that you think my photoshopping skills are just _that_ good, I'm sorry to say that's not my handiwork. _That_, that's all Stan, and all Kyle."

"I don't believe you."

Grunting slightly, Cartman pulled his phone out of his pocket, clicking a few buttons, watching the video flitter across his screen. Twisting the phone round, he offered it to Wendy, watching as her lip began to tremble. "You can download it for yourself, you know? I posted it all over the internet. I could even send it to you, if you want?"

Wendy ignored him, snatching the phone out of his hands, blinking the tears out of her eyes. "This is-this is some kind of _joke_, yeah? Stan-Stan wouldn't _do_ this to me!"

"To be honest, I think he only does _that_ to Kyle." Cartman smirked, cracking his knuckles, "Face it Wend's, they finally embraced the final frontier. They finally embraced it _graphically_."

Wendy inhaled heavily, clutching one hand over her mouth, desperately trying to suppress her sobs. Desperately failing to suppress her sobs. Cartman just grinned, relishing in her misery. She was trembling slightly, weakly, pathetically, the phone still cradled in her hand, the tears falling freely down her face.

"Are you embarrassed Wendy? Are you hurt? Are you _heartbroken_? You were a _pawn_ Wendy. He _used _you, he _used_ you to protect the stupid little _Jew_. How does that _feel_ Wendy? How does it _feel_?" Wendy dropped the phone, gasping slightly, desperate, desperately trying to muffle herself with the sleeve of her dressing gown. Cartman heaved himself out of the deckchair, grunting as he pulled himself to his feet. "You should have just let me do the report on Ingvar Kamprad Wendy. You just should have let me _do it_. You should have just let me do it, you should have just _shut the fuck up_."

Wordlessly Wendy blinked up at him, her eyes bright and red, her breathing ragged gasping. For a second Cartman just glared at her, watching, watching her turn tail, watching her leap away across the snow, leap away back into her house. Cartman just blinked, watching her slam the door behind her, watching her click the lock shut. Smiling, he rubbed his fingers across his eyes, bending down to the deckchair, gathering the stack of paper, the stack of greyscale photographs off his seat. Humming to himself, he stepped across her lawn, lifting open her letterbox, forcing the papers though the slot, forcing them across her carpet.

Singing softly to himself, he turned tail, thumping heavily off her stoop, thumping heavily across her lawn. He'd been awake for more then twenty-four hours, he was about to go down a dangerous amount of caffeine, about to go and blearily enjoy his carnival, about to go stake out Wendy from his basement again, relish in the misery he caused, relish in her _pain_. It'd been worth it, it'd all been fucking worth it. He'd got his revenge, he'd brought Wendy Testaburger to her fucking knees. He'd made her fucking _cry_.

He most definitely was _not_ loosing his touch.

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><p>AN – We'll get back to Stan and Kyle in a little while. In the meantime, let's see how everyone else is enjoying the party, eh? Well, uber duper thank you's thank you's for read read reading, so so wonderbar, and super fluffy glittery sparkly loves loves loves for reviewing! So so wonderful and awesome and hugs hugs. Itit broke the hundred mark, and that always makes me feel so so so warm and fluffy and wonderful and thankyou thankyou amazing loves loves loves 3

And Savannah, if I was their parents, it'd probably be the shock that made me cry. That and the fact that having all that glue slapped up on your house like that is bound to cause some pretty fluffing serious damage to your plaster work/paint veneer. That poor, poor veneer, it never stood a chance… Damn you Cartman =P

Oh, and kudos Skullover. Grayscale took the biscuit (lol British pun!). Enjoy your cybercookie, I cyberbaked it fresh today!

Gingersexual, I was so tempted, so tempted, but I already christened my good old netbook Candyfloss! Enjoy some cybercandyfloss, because candyfloss really is really so epic. Utterly, utterly candyflossingly epic.


	17. How Isn't This That Bad?

Shelly was still doing something to his car door. Shelly was fucking _defacing_ his car door. Stan just gawked at her for a second, icy snowflakes blowing against his face, melting against his neck, the hem of his long winter coat, unzipped, awkwardly thrown on, blowing gently against his thighs.

Stan blinked, rooted to the ice, unable to move. He didn't quite know what to do in a situation like this, he didn't know if he was supposed to stop her, from, you know, carving _that_ deeper into his door, or just let her get on with it. He knew his car was a glorified piece of scrap, but that didn't mean she had the right to _deface_ it like that, no matter how mad she was. It didn't mean he wanted to drive around with _that_ permanently engraved on his drivers' side door, advertising it for the world to see.

He took a step forwards, intending to shove her to the side, push her into a snowdrift, climb into his car and just drive, dive anywhere, drive _away_, away from this town, away from his house, away from the fliers and the gawking and the embarrassment and the accusations and the _shame_. Once glance at the street shut down that idea completely.

The sheer amount of shit, the performers and stalls and parades made driving _anywhere_ impossible. The foot traffic, the spectacle, he wouldn't be able to back up off the driveway let alone make any progress down the street. Stan groaned, clutching the bridge of his nose, swearing bitterly. He couldn't think straight, the sheer noise of the circus parading up and down the street, the noise of his neighbours, the screams and screeches, the murmuring and the band. And his mom, still rooted to the spot, still staring up at the front of the house, still crying silently, her eyes still fixed on that goddamn obscene private moment. He couldn't take it anymore.

Cursing violently, Stan clutched his coat shut across his chest, running his snow-numbed fingers through his hair. With a jolt, he spun on his heels, lurching off with a start, unsteadily bounding down the street. He left them to it, to the mess, the shock and shame, the spectacle. He couldn't even begin to face anyone right now, he had no idea what he could possibly say. Besides, at least with Shelly venting her terrifying, ferial frustration on his car he was physically safe from her, at least she was leaving _him_ alone. He'd take a trashed car door over a broken femur any day of the week.

Stan bit his lip, slipping slightly on the slush. The snow and ice made his bounding jog fairly hazardous, the hems of his pyjamas, wet and heavy with paced ice threatened to trip him. He'd thrown on his coat, his boots, he'd thrown them on over his nightwear. He should have taken five minutes to get dressed properly, to grab his hat or some gloves, at the very least he should have taken that extra second to tuck his hems into the top of his boots, but he really wasn't thinking. He was working on autopilot, just ignoring the screeches from the party, the streamers, the gasps and the gawks, just ignoring _everything_, he just wanted to get to Kyle. He was acutely aware he _needed_ to get to Kyle.

It didn't take him long to crash onto Kyle's front lawn, to ricochet off the letterbox and stumble down the path. Narrowing his eyes, Stan gawked up at the superimposed photo adorning his best friends house, his breath catching in his throat. It was different to the one on his house, a different position, a different result, they were doing something completely different. It was just as obscene though, just as horrendous, as incriminating, just as _private_.

Stan blinked, forcing his eyes away. His cheeks were flushed pink, a mixture of the cold and the exertion, and the embarrassment, his eyesight was vaguely blurry, also a mixture of the cold and exertion and embarrassment. The carnival was in full swing down here as well, the acrobats were diligently back flipping though the confetti and the slush, the stupid marching band was still tunelessly clunking away, the lampposts were still strung with the pink streamers, still plastered with greyscale fliers, still flying those crudely defaced rainbow flags. Exhaling, Stan wondered just exactly how much all this had cost, what the _point_ of it all was, all this glitz and jazz. It was just, just _too much_. A fraction of this showy crap would have achieved the aim, the rest was just painful _overkill_. Expensive, redundant overkill.

It was all so pathetically Cartman.

Shaking his head, Stan stepped forward, shielding his eyes from the sun. Ike halfway up a ladder, balancing carefully against the wall, meticulous scraping at the poster, chipping away at the billboard paste. He was desperately trying to remove Kyle's face, absolve his brother of the shame, protect his dignity. He seemed physically unable to tackle anything else, focusing entity on scraping off Kyle's face. A few of the neighbours were watching him work, murmuring amongst themselves, whispering behind their hands.

Stan felt the bile rise in his throat. "You can borrow my dad's power hose if you like? It might make the job a bit easier?"

Ike started, glancing down. "Maybe later, once I've got the bulk off. It doesn't matter much anyway, it's done too much damage. The entire house'll have to be repainted."

"Really?"

"Yeah."

"Bummer." Stan blinked, rubbing his hand across his face, dimly wondering where the elephants had disappeared too. "Where's you brother, Ike?"

Ike sighed, turning back to the picture, resuming his diligent scraping. "Upstairs. He's locked himself in the bathroom. My parents are trying to get him to come out. My mom's pretty mad."

Stan nodded, not even bothering to respond. Exhaling slightly, he brushed passed the ladder, automatically stomping his feet on the doormat, hesitantly pushing his way inside. Stan balked, turning away. There was paper strewn across the floor, covering Kyle's carpet. Those images, those obscene images were scattered across the hallway, coating the floor, blowing innocently across the room, the wind dancing them against the wall.

Of all the awkward moments in Stan's life, all the embarrassing shit, all the crap, none of it amounted to this, none of it was as bad as having to face Kyle's parents, to look them in the eyes knowing full well they'd seen him do _that_ to their son. Quite frankly, he'd rather red-rocket Sparky in front of his parents book club, or watching his dad stagger about on stage, shit-drunk in nothing but his underwear, nothing could ever be as bad as having to face Kyle's parents with _that_ superimposed across their house.

Kyle's mother was hammering on the door, demanding he come out, screaming at him to open the door. Kyle's dad was nervously wringing his hands, occasionally calling over Shelia, trying to coax Kyle out. Stan just cleared his throat, muttering a terrified 'excuse me' as he gently brushed them out the way. Luckily, Kyle's parents seemed far to stunned by his brazen presence to really react to him, they just watched as Stan knocked on the door, called to Kyle, they watched got Kyle click open the lock, extended a hand, and pull Stan over the thresh hold.

By the time Mrs. Broflovski jerked back into action, Kyle had already slid the deadbolt back across, and Stan was already safely locked in the bathroom. Mrs. Broflovski proceeded to let out a slight scream, before violently attacking the door. Stan just ignored her, gazing pathetically down at a petrified, little Kyle.

His eyes were wet, wide and way too bright, his face was slightly palled, his whole persona was vaguely wan. He looked sick, sick or exhausted, sick _and _exhausted, Stan didn't know. He didn't really care. Kyle just looked wrong.

There were a few papers scattered across the bathroom floor, more of the fliers. Those bastard fliers. Kyle was still clutching a few against his chest, shaking slightly, the paper crumpled, forcefully driven into his pyjama top.

Stan inhaled sharply, toeing one of the fliers out of the way, his heavy boot leaving a damp mark on the cheap paper. "This is fucked up right here Ky, this is really fucked up."

"I know. I know." Kyle was still shaking. Biting his lip, Stan lifted his hand up, resting it gently on Kyle's narrow shoulder, lightly gripping him though his cotton t-shirt. Kyle just gasped slightly, gazing down at the carpet. "Stan, what the _fuck_ are we gonna do?"

Mrs. Broflovski was still waging her war against the door. Stan swallowed, stepping forward, stepping away from the door. "Well, we can… We can either _stop_ _it_, you know? Or-or we can not. We can not." He purposely kept his voice low, his tone quiet.

"Oh God, this is _awful_. This is like, the worst thing _ever_."

"Come on Ky, it isn't _that_ bad."

"It isn't _that_ bad? Stan, there's a picture of me with _your fucking cock in my fucking mouth_ superimposed across my house! How isn't this _that_ _bad_?"

Stan smiled wanly at him, slipping his arms round his neck, gently pulling him into a hug, gently pressing their chests together. Kyle didn't resist, willingly pressing himself against Stan. "You should see the one he pasted across my house." Stan quipped dryly, "I mean, Jesus _Christ_, talk about _compromising_."

"Oh fuck." Kyle reached up, gripping the lapels on Stan's coat. Stan was dimly aware of the fliers left wedged between them, crinkling lightly as Kyle moved, pressing himself closer and closer to Stan. "Oh fuck! I bet there are photos already plastered up across the internet! I bet Facebook's already flooded! This is it! I'm going to spend the rest of my life dogged by this! Everyone I ever meet, everyone I know, they'll know, they'll have _seen _it! Seen _me_! I'm _never_ going to live this down! This is going to ruin my _life_."

Stan hushed him, soothingly rubbing his back. "I think you're being overly dramatic."

"No, I'm _not_!"

"Except you are. Fuck, dude, this is _South Park_. Shit like this happens all the time. It'll die down. Just like it always does." Kyle just whimpered, driving his nose against Stan's jugular. Stan laughed softly, an action that felt vaguely foreign after the morning's calamity. "You'll be fine Ky, I promise. Give it a few months, give it a _week_, something else'll go down. No one will give a shit about any of this." Kyle just inhaled shakily, furrowing his face into the crook of Stan's neck, murmuring some biting retort. For a second they were silent, just clutching at each other, gripping at fabric, latched together.

Eventually Stan cleared his throat. "So, are we going to, you know, _stop_ this then?"

"Only if you want to."

"Do _you_ want to?"

Kyle hesitated, their chests still driven together. "Not… Not particularly, no. I think… I think the damage has already been done. I mean, short of pinning us down and attempting a bastardised version of the Ludovico technique to, you know, _straighten_ us out, there's really nothing anyone can do about it. So, so we might as well… You know?"

"Yeah, we might as well." Stan smiled, driving his face into Kyle's hair, inhaling the mix of pillow and shampoo and existence. Mrs. Broflovski had stopped hammering on the door, she'd left, gone somewhere to do something screechy and protest-y; the bathroom was silent, still, save from a dripping of a tap, Kyle's slightly shuddering breaths, and the faint sounds of the carnival, drifting airily and carefree though the double-glazed window.

"At least there are no more secrets now. No more lying."

"Yeah. At least there's no more lying." Exhaling, Kyle pressed a kiss against Stan's jaw line, firm and unrhythmical. Stan just smiled, nuzzling Kyle's hair, clutching his arms round Kyle's waist. The fliers were still sandwiched between them, rustling innocently to reaffirm their presence

"Hey Ky, I" Stan paused for a second, clearing his throat, pressing a kiss to the side of Kyle's face, "I love you, yeah?"

"Yeah. I love you too."

* * *

><p>AN - Sorry sorry for the extended gap, excuses and shimt, please enjoy a slightly longer chapter as reparations, sorry. Kenny angst next chapter, so stay tuned for that too. Still, thank you thank you for sticking with it and read read reading, and superman thank thank thank yous for the rererereviews, soso lovely and warm and fluffy and duvet and candyfloss and stuff. Loves loves loves lovely loves.

And Savannah, yeah, I agree. Clowns are evil. Pure, unadulterated, garishly coloured evil. Ew. And sorry sorry, the whole excessive repeating thing generally happens when my brain is hemorrhaging fail, so I'll try to keep a lid on it and roll it out on special occasions. To preserve the dramatic effect =3

And Gingersexual, maybe about five. Probably no less then five, but maybe less then five, but maybe one or two more. I'm not sure, but we are in the clothing length, so it probably won't be too much longer.


	18. What Did It Cost You?

Kenny frowned, angrily driving a splintered chunk of scrap wood into the snow. He was angry, upset, gutted, furious, his head was spinning, his chest was aching, his hands were frozen, numb with cold, stinging with prickly, dirty splinters. The concrete slab he was sitting on was covered in snow and packed ice, the biting wetness was already sodden and burning cold against his thighs.

After blearily watching Stan throw on his boots and coat, starting clumsily off down the road, Kenny had staggered across his yard, accidentally loosing himself in the carnival. It was utter madness in the eye of Cartman's constructed chaos, the residents of South Park were stirring, milling sleepily onto the streets, gasping and murmuring at the posters, the fliers and flags, shaking their heads and talking behind cupped hands. All around him performers were sauntering down the street, music blaring from the tuneless marching band, the gymnast flipping unhappily thought the dirty confetti saturated slush, the clowns were sloppily juggling batons, gracelessly twisting disappointingly unimaginative balloon shapes, just gravening about pathetically. It was all very insane, and completely illucidly _unreal_.

It was the elephants that really did it, the neat little line of very depressed looking _elephants_ trudging down the main road, donned in bright, twinkie little outfits, bells and sequins latched across their rough grey bodies, jingling little hats strapped to their heads.

Kenny just gawked at them, his arms clutched across his chest. It was wrong, those big, _big_ wise elephants, those _creatures_ forced into those stupid tacky outfits, it was humiliating and degrading, not just to the elephants, but for _everyone_. Kenny inhaled sharply, averring his gaze. There was something fundamentally _wrong_ about seeing twinkie, depressed elephants trudging though the _snow_. Elephants didn't belong near _snow_, that was just jarring, depressing even; it was like watching TV when the sound had skipped out of time to the pictures, just by that little bit, that wavering little bit, so everyone opened their mouths just a fraction after the words had started, and things hit the ground just a fraction before the bang.

Watching elephants force their way through the snow was as wrong as seeing the love of your life playing 'hide the weenie' with the quarterbacks dick, a look of sheer ecstasy plastered across his face. It was as wrong as seeing your two best friends doing something that wouldn't be out of place in a smutty grinder. It was just, just _wrong_.

Kenny blinked, angrily rubbing his hands across the face, driving away the tears that were biting at the back of his eyeballs. Someone had been cooking food on the sidewalk, hotdogs or something, Kenny could feel the warm steamy plume blowing against his face, his frozen cheek, meting the snow that had settled against his coat. It smelt processed, meaty, not a real meaty, but a vaguely metallic meaty that stuck to the back of his tongue. It all made Kenny feel slightly queasy.

It took him a moment to shake the shock and fuzz and nausea from his head, to put all the awful, pounding emotions to one side and realise what he wanted, what he needed to do. With a determined grimace, he'd shoved his way past a stupid juggling clown, stalking off down the slush-covered, sodden confetti strewn road.

He'd gone to see Kyle, to try to talk to Kyle, to shout at Kyle, to beg Kyle, to do something awful but wonderful to Kyle. But Kyle's stupid bitch of a mom hadn't let him in. Apparently Kyle was upset, he was throwing a conniption, he'd locked himself in the bathroom. Apparently Stan was with him, Stan was already there _comforting_ him, apparently they needed some private, alone time to "deal with the situation." Then she'd slammed the heavy wooden door in Kenny's face, leaving him shaking on the doorstep.

Ike had just watched him, from high up on his ladder, a slight frown creasing his face. He'd not said anything, he'd just watched, one hand still braced against the wall, the other clutching a wallpaper scraper. He'd managed to strip away a good portion of Kyle's face, the remnants of the poster were scattered round the ladder, littering across the undisturbed snow. The slightly flurrying snowflakes were already settling over the strips, threatening to bury them, hide them back away until those few days in summer when all the snow melted, and the grass could finally breathe.

For a second Kenny's foot quivered, itching to kick at the base of the ladder, itching to destroy one of Mrs. Broflovski's precious, pretentious potted mini evergreens. Ike's stupid, drilling gaze was still bearing into him, watching him, judging him. With a swallowed curse, Kenny had jammed his stiff hands firmly into his coats pocket, pursing his lips as he stormed across Kyle's front yard.

Once again he lost himself in the milling, screeching carnival, angrily storming though the gaping crowds, the crappy, inept performers. It was all a blur to him, streams of rainbow and pink and greyscale all merging together, lost against the people, every stupid face blank, every gawking stare exactly the same.

He felt cheated, cuckolded, he felt _stupid_. He felt stupider then he'd ever felt before in his life. He felt stupid that he'd allowed himself to believe them, believe _it_, that they were just friends, that nothing was happening between them. That all those whispered conversations, those long winding drives, the dinners and movies, those stupid _private_ camping trips, that they were just innocent and normal and because "that's what best friends did". He'd always suspected, everyone had always always suspected, but he'd convinced himself they were being honest, that it wasn't true. He'd believed that it wasn't happening, that Kyle was still fair game, that he had a _chance_.

The day Stan had asked Wendy out had been one of the happiest days in Kenny's entire, miserable, depressing life. It'd been perfect, wonderful, pussy little Stan finally back together with his bitchy little girlfriend, brilliant little Kyle finally left on the sidelines, finally Kenny's for the taking. He'd been so fucking _happy_, Stan was out of the equation, everything was falling into place. He'd felt on top of the fucking _world_.

And now, now he felt like someone had driven a flagpole through his chest, for nothing more then a cheap, throw away gag. He felt like he just wanted to die in every way possible, he just wanted the aching, empty pain to _end_.

He had no idea what to do, where to go, so he'd just gone home. He'd stalked across his garden, kicked a few cans, broken a few crates, grabbed up a splintered piece of wood from the menagerie of filthy junk. Then he'd parked his malnutritioned ass on his front stoop, and proceeded to attack the snow. The carnival, all the shouting, blearing, prancing, the pathetic, tacky shit Cartman had hired, they wouldn't come down this far, they wouldn't cross the tracks and prance down the "bad" side of town. Apparently Cartman had told them it was too dangerous to cross into the ghetto.

Kenny snorted, savagely driving his stick into the frozen ground. South Park didn't _have_ a ghetto. This ghetto Cartman always went on about, it was just his _house_, he _was _the ghetto.

Biting his lip, Kenny rearranged his hand on the wooden beam, angrily stabbing it into the snow. He had a damp, grubby flier pressed face down on his lap. He'd pulled it off a lamppost to gawk at, he'd not let it go since. He couldn't bear to look at it anymore, at the _thing_ they were doing. At how fucking _happy_ they both looked doing it. He didn't want to do that anymore. Kenny gulped, swallowing the bile that had risen to his throat. Deep down he just felt hollow, like Stan had, quite literally, punched the wind out of him. It hurt. And it sucked. Ant it wasn't fair. It really, _really_ wasn't _fair_!

"What's up, po'boy?"

Scowling, Kenny quickly dropped the stick, rubbing his eyes with his sleeve, the rough plastic of his coat abrasive against his frozen cheek. Smirking slightly, Cartman slammed his massive bulk down next to him, grunting as he sat.

"Where the fuck did you get that ice-cream, lard tits?"

"I hired a vendor. He's parked outside Wendy's house. All the best things are outside Wendy's house."

"It's like, thirty degrees out here, what the fuck do you want ice-cream for?"

Cartman shrugged, taking a slurp from his cone. "There's never a bad time for ice-cream, sewer rat. If you could _afford_ ice-cream, you'd know that." Cartman paused, taking another repulsive lick. "But don't worry Kenny, if you find yourself getting _too_ jealous, you can always scoop up a cup full of snow and pee on it. You got a po'boy snowcone right there!"

Kenny narrowed his eyes, balling his fingers into fists. He really was not in the mood for this, for _him_, right now. "What the fuck are you doing here Cartman? Shouldn't you be waddling down the street with the rest of the elephants?"

"Oh, ha ha. No. I'm looking for Wendy. She snuck out of her house. I'm trying to find her."

"What the hell do you want to find _Wendy_ for?"

"Haven't you _seen_ her house yet? It's _brilliant_. She's been crying all day. Shut up in her room like a snivelling little baby. I told you I'd make her cry! I told you I'd force her too her knees!"

"You're disgusting Cartman."

"I _told_ you, I _told_ you I wasn't loosing my touch Kenny! Didn't I _tell_ you?"

Kenny snorted, biting back a dry sob. "So, what? You finally got your revenge, huh? What did it cost you? How much money did you _waste_ on all that _crap_? Was it worth destroying you best _fucking_ friends, huh? The _only_ people who fucking tolerate you? Was it worth destroying _that_?"

"Oh, like I give a crap about those fags. Of course it was worth it. I made Wendy Testaburger _cry_!"

Biting his quivering lip, Kenny looked down, desperately repressing the lump that had formed in his throat. Every time he shut his eyes, he saw them, that image of Stan defiling Kyle. It was emblazed under his eyelids, it was the only thing he could see, those awful, awful, _unfair_, just, just _things_.

"I told you I'd get my revenge! I told you! I to-"

"Just _fuck off and leave me alone_,_ Cartman_!"

Cartman frowned. "What the fuck's wrong with _you_?"

Kenny didn't answer. Instead, he pulled himself to his feet, wrenching open his chipped front door, storming inside. Cartman just watched him stalk off, a bemused, dangerous look twisting his face.

* * *

><p>AN - Hola, I actually have nothing to say really, besides thank you thank you for read read reading what is beginning to feel a bit like the never-ending story, sorry sorry that it's dragging on for soso long, and muches muches really super duper thank you thank you for reviewing, is so warm and pilllow and yay candyfluff loves loves lovely loves.

And Princess-of-Your-Doom95, Shelly was engraving "fag" on there. But don't worry, we'll get back to that in a soon-to-be chapter, so hey-ho! It's not over yet! =)

And Savannah, I just don't like the masks, the make-up, I don't like the fact that clowns are pretending to be something they're not. I've never liked things like that. When I was a itty bitty youngling my mum took us all to Disneyland Paris. I swear I spent the entire time cowering away from the big mascot animals. All the photos we have of that trip just have me curled up into a little ball sobbing in distress. I liked Pluto though, I think because the Pluto consume was so much shorter then the rest... Hmm.


	19. You Just What?

Stan sighed, clutching his coat shut across his thin nightshirt, diligently stomping through the wet slush. The sun had gone down a few hours ago, the wind had picked up, and the snow had intensified into an angry flurry. It really wasn't a pleasant night. Stan blinked, rubbing his eyes with the heel of his palm. It was pretty quiet now, the carnival had wound down to nothing, nothing more then a few straggling carts carefully getting packed away, a few stray fairground rides awaiting their pickup lorry, nothing more then one or two random people, trudging blearily through the slush. The stars were out, the moon was bright, bright and full, partially dappled by wispy clouds. It cast the road in an eerily bright light, very cold, hollow and silver.

The shadowy street was absolutely littered with partially buried debris, abandoned rubbish, cups, polystyrene trays, boxes, sticks, all mixed in with the slush, strewn about with the acridly pink, disgustingly sodden confetti, the loose greyscale fliers, soaking and torn, their condemning images blurred beyond comprehension. Cartman found it all well and good to make the mess, to hang the banners and the flags, to coat the road with all this shit, but he'd sooner be damned before he cleaned it up. As far as Cartman was concerned, clearing up his mess was somebody else's job.

Exhaling, Stan crossed his arms, absently hugging himself. It'd taken hours to coax Kyle out of the bathroom, to convince him nothing awful was going to happen, that his mother _wasn't_ going to murder him, butcher him, and feed him to the cows. That everything would be okay. It'd take him even longer to detach a very clingy and slightly hysterical Kyle from his side, and swiftly exeunt from his presence, and from the house. He'd left him with his parents, he'd not wanted too, Kyle'd not wanted him too, but he'd had to. Things like this really needed to be dealt with by the family first, alone and out of prying eyes. After that was sorted, and only after that was sorted, they could tackle the rest. Besides, it wasn't like Kyle was in any real danger; Mrs. Broflovski would sooner rage a war against Canada then let anything inflict harm upon either one of her sons. That's just the way it was.

Biting his lip, Stan hugged himself, narrowing his eyes at his car. Carefully he brushed his way across his front lawn, eyes fixed on his Chevy. Shelly'd really done a number on his car door, the deep, angry welts in the paintwork, there was no way Stan could buff that out, nor paint over it. She hadn't just scored it into the paintwork, she'd all but carved it into the _metal_. Any deeper, and she'd have gone straight through. Pursing his lips, Stan stepped onto the driveway, crouching down in the snow as he inspected the damage.

It probably looked worse in the moonlight; the harsh, bright silver caught every grove on the door, highlighting those three letters, dapping them in shadow. For a second Stan just crouched there, his eyes wide and bright, his numb fingers slowly tracing the letters, the F, the A, and finally the clunky, graceless G. It wasn't pretty, it was barely even _legible_, and it was permanent, irreparably marring _his_ car.

For a second he felt his face flush pink, fighting back the urge that was welling in his throat, the overwhelming, painful urge to turn tail and run, run back to Kyle, to run back to Kyle so he could lock them back in that bathroom, so he could bury his face in his lap, clutch at his t-shirt and pretend that none of this was happening, that none of this had happened. That everything was all some awful, fucked up nightmare, that tomorrow, all this would be gone.

"How _could_ you, Stanley?"

Stan started violently, jerking round. Wendy had been lurking in shadows, hiding in his bushes. Stan just blinked, trying to comprehend the situation. It was like thinking though cotton, his brain had shut itself down. "Whu-What?"

Exclaiming slightly, Wendy rubbed at her puffy eyes with the sleeve of her coat, desperately trying to brush away any evidence of her tears. Stan just stood there, watching her cry, too befuddled to really react. He was just wondering how long she'd been hiding in those bushes, crouched knee-deep in the sodden snow.

"How could you do this to _me_,Stan?"

"Do, do _what_ to you Wendy?"

Wendy squeaked angrily, brandishing a finger at the front of his house. That picture was still superimposed up there, slightly damaged, but as clear as ever. The corners of the poster were curling pathetically, torn strips of paper were hanging loosely off the veneer, several chunks were missing, exposing the damaged paintwork beneath. It was a mixture of his fathers attempt at removal, the power hose and a Brillo Pad, helped along by the harsh Colorado weather. Stan had been right, all that glue, the damage it had done. The entire front of his house would need to be repainted.

Wendy just gasped slightly, her breath catching in her chest. "Do _that_ to me Stanley! How could you _humiliate_ me like that?"

Blinking slightly, Stan tore his gaze from the poster, fixing it on the snow instead. Wendy was really upset; tears glistened on her cheeks, her shoulders were shaking, her arms latched firmly across her chest. Stan was really beginning to feel pretty bad about all this, he'd not wanted to hurt her, not _really_. Keeping his eyes fixed on the snow, Stan began to toe at the ice, carefully pushing an empty plastic cup across the ground. "It really wasn't about you, Wendy."

"It wasn't about _me_? You asked me out, you take me to the _dance_, you tell everyone we're _dating_, and then you _cheat on me_. And that's not about _me_, huh?"

Stan just shrugged, causing Wendy to inhale sharply, angrily gripping at the sleeve of her coat. "Fuck Stan, have you seen what Cartman has done to my _house_? He's fucking _ruined_ it! When I woke up, he was camped out on my fucking _lawn_, just waiting, just _waiting_ for me to wake up so he could _rub it in_, so he could _embarrass me_!"

"I'm _sorry_ Wendy. I just-"

"What the fuck were you _thinking_ Stanley? Why-" Her voice broke slightly, Stan winced, "Why would you do this to _me_? Just, _why_?"

"I just…" Stan trailed off, eyes still glued to the snow. He really didn't know quite what to say, quite how to explain himself. There was really nothing he could do to put this right.

Gasping, exasperated, Wendy stomped her foot into the slush, accidentally coating the leg of her jeans with a mixture of dirty snow and muddy ice. "You just? You just what? For fuck's sake, _look_ _at me_ Stanley! The least you could do is _fucking_ look at me! After all you've _done_!"

Wincing slightly, Stan pulled his eyes away from the snow, squinting at her through the moonlight. Her face was pink, her eyes red with anger, upset, _embarrassment_. Stan inhaled slightly, guilt heavy in his stomach. "I just wanted to keep Kyle safe Wendy, I'm sorry that this happened, I just wanted to keep him _safe_."

"Oh Kyle, fucking _Kyle_, it's always about _your_ precious fucking _Kyle_, isn't it? Oh, fuck Stan, don't you ever think about _anyone_ else?" Stan didn't say anything, he just watched her, his own eyes sad, overly wide, overly bright.

Wendy just gasped slightly, jerking her eyes away from him, pulling a shaking hand through her hair. Her mind was running too fast, clouded with angry emotions. She blamed Kyle for this, for stealing her man, for being so close to him, _always_ with him, always demanding his attention, all the time. None of this would have happened if Kyle wasn't _always there_, if he wasn't so desperate for Stan's approval over everything, wasn't so desperate for _Stan_.

She just wanted to blast him into the sun, him and Cartman, she just wanted them to _go away_, go awayand leave her and Stan _alone_. However all these uprisings occurring across the Middle East, they had torn apart the syndications she usually used. Until she could set up new distributions channels, make new contacts, she was fresh out of luck. For a second Wendy just cursed democracy, angrily gripping at her coat. She thought about calling a Russian mercenary she'd once known, he might be able to help.

Stan cleared his throat, punctuating the awkward silence. "I _am_ sorry Wendy. I never meant to hurt you. I-I just thought you'd understand. People were getting _suspicious_."

Wendy blinked, one of her hands still tangled in her hair. "So… So what happens now, huh? How do we… How do we move past _this_?"

"I don't… I don't think we do Wendy. I'm-I'm not going to _stop_ it, not Kyle… I'm… I'm…"

Wendy pulled a face. "Oh, I know _exactly _what you are _Stanley_!"

"_Wendy_."

"Oh, just go to _hell_!" With that, she turned tail, storming off through the snow. For a second Stan just watched her, stomping off down the street, splashing though the slush, disappearing belligerently in the darkness. After a few minutes he blinked, shaking his head. Exhaling, he brushed his way though the snow, pushing open his heavy front door.

Cursing to himself, Stan pounded up the stairs, hitting each step with far more force then was really necessary. It was pretty late, he assumed everyone had already gone to bed, but his no. His bedroom light was on, a strip of orange was shining under the door, gleaming across the carpet. Pained, Stan shut his eyes. He just wanted to go to _bed_, he really didn't want to have to deal with anything else today.

Pushing open his door, Stan blinked, tilting his head to the left. His father was sitting in his room, perched on the edge of a brand new bed. A brand new, big-ass, double bed.

"You… You brought me a new _bed_?"

Randy just smiled a very creepy smile (Stan assumed he was aiming at fatherly), patting the covers next to him. "Come sit down son. Let's have a little talk."

"_You brought me a new bed?_"

"Yes. Do you like it?"

"What… What did you do with my old bed?"

"That doesn't matter. Just come and _sit down_ son. Let's _talk_."

Stan pinched the bridge of his nose, squeezing his eyes shut. "Just why-why, _just why_?"

By now Randy's attempted smile was beginning to make him look fairly demented. Stan just grimaced. "Well Stan, you're getting older. Me and your mother both decided it was time we realised that, and, and _accepted _it."

"Wait, so, so you're _okay_ with this?"

"Well, we're not particularly happy about, you know," Randy gestured outside "_that_. But Kyle's a good kid, I guess. And you two always were a bit _funny_. At least this way, we don't need to worry about you having any _little accidents_."

"Little accidents?"

"Yeah, you know?" Randy cupped his arms together and rocked them, nursing an imaginary child, "He's not likely to shit out an assbaby, Stanley."

"Oh God." Stan's breath was catching in his throat, forcing him forward. The entirety if the day was wearing heavily against him, the implications, _everything_, he was struggling to breathe. The stress of the day was gripping painfully at his lungs, clawing at his chest. Swearing, Stan gasped slightly, pulling open his top draw, rooting out his inhaler. It took him a moment to catch his breath, bent double, inhaling deeply.

"Son… Stan, are you alright? Don't… Don't you like your new bed?"

Stan laughed dryly, his chest still thick from the attack. "No, the bed's _fine_. I just-I just want this day to _end_."

Randy just smiled sadly, pulling himself to his feet. "I know son. You should, you should get some sleep."

Stan just nodded, clutching his chest. Randy just sighed, tentatively patting him on his shoulder, clicking the door shut behind him. Exhaling, Stan sat down heavily on the edge of the bed, absently rubbing his chest. For a while he just concentrated on his breathing, inhaling steadily, his eyes cased towards the floor.

Frowning, he leant forward, catching up a stray flier, one that'd blown abandoned across his bedroom floor. For a moment he just glared at the blurry greyscale photograph, studying it, actually really looking at it for the first time all day. Narrowing his eyes, he studied the room, the background, all those amorphous shapes behind them; the quality of the photo was really pretty deplorable, but if he tried, if he squinted, he could just about make it out the odd shapes, the furniture, the angle, the layout.

Clutching the flier against his chest, Stan stalked across his room, angrily stripping down his bookcase. He should have guessed, tacky little spyware, cowardly and creepy, it really had Cartman written all over it. Pursing his lips, Stan gripped at the small black gadget, tearing it off his shelf. Bracing himself against the bookcase, he began to crush the cheap plastic bug under his boot, angrily pounding it to fragments against the carpet.

* * *

><p>AN - Eheh, apologies for chapter, it did not want to be written, no siree. Still, it is slightly longer to avoid an awkward bridge. Hopefully. Anyhoo, I need to go sob and pound my head against a wall now. Still, thank you thank you for reading, and sticking with it, even though it's sort of like the never-ending bloody story. Uberduper thank you thank you's for reviewing, is awesome and love-love-lovely and soft and pillowfluffy. Yeah.

And Savannah, I'm glad you like evil, barely human Cartman. IMO, he is like, the hardest character to write. I guess that's why this story keeps on going and going and _going_. And don't worry, it is pretty funny. Everytime I see a big, dressed up mascot-thing, I still cut it a wide berth. I can't go near them. I think Eeyore gave me PTSD...


	20. Why What?

Stan blinked, frowning into his pillow. Something had woken him, a weight, a jar, someone had just sat on the edge of his bed. Groggily, Stan lifted his head, narrowing his eyes through the dimness. It was too early, really early, it was way, way too early, everything was slightly woolly, Stan was blinking stupidly, trying to clear his sleep muddled mind. A dark, human-shaped outline was balanced on the edge of the bed, hunched over, his weight causing the mattress to dip slightly. Through the darkness, Stan could just about make out a dark, thick winter coat winter coat, sloping shoulders, a rough frame, and a violent, explosive puff of bright wiry hair.

Groaning, Stan shut his eyes, kneading his face with the palm of his hand. "God, what is it with you and _breaking into my room_? Jesus Kyle, I thought you'd've grown out of this by now!"

Kyle huffed, wrinkling his nose. "Oh, how _lovely_, way to make me feel _wanted_, Stan!"

"Christ, what _time_ is it?"

Kyle turned his head away, refusing to answer. Cursing slightly, Stan arched his back, twisting round to look at his alarm clock. It took him a while to focus his eyes on the digits, he had to squint to read it. "Oh, you've got to be kidding me. Kyle, it's the middle of the fucking _night_, you _can't be here_!"

Kyle frowned, absently worrying with his the hem of his coat. "Say's who? I can be wherever I fucking want!"

"Look, just, just give me five minutes to wake up and I'll drive you back home."

Kyle squared his jaw, gracelessly forced his arms across the front of his coat, defensively clutching at himself. "I don't _want_ to go home."

"You _have_ to go home!"

"Why do I _have_ to go home?"

"We don't want to make this shit any _worse_, Kyle!"

"Oh, how can this _possibly_ get any _worse_? Fuck, our parents _already_ know we did it, who the fuck _cares_ what we do now?"

"Just _don't rock the boat_ Ky. Geez." Exhaling, Stan fell back against his pillows, flopping his left forearm across his eyes. "Does your mom know you're here?"

"I dunno. She knows I _left_. Christ, that woman has the hearing of a talented _bat_. I can't _sneeze_ without waking her up."

"Won't she be worried about you?"

"No." Kyle paused for a second, tilting his head away, angrily pursing his lips. "What happened to you car?"

"Shelly. Shelly happened to my car."

"Did she… Did she do anything to you?"

Stan groaned, shifting slightly, driving his face into his pillow. It was way, way too early to be dealing with _this_, to be having this discussion. He just wanted to go back to sleep, to loose himself in the somnolence, the warm dark nothingness. "No," His voice was muffled by the pillow, but he didn't care. Kyle had inherited his mothers hearing, after all. "she didn't do anything to me. It was all just the car."

"Oh."

"Yeah."

"Well, what the fuck happened you your _bed_?"

"I dunno. My dad just brought me a new one. I came home and it was here."

"_Why_?"

Stan shrugged, shutting his eyes, furrowing back into his pillows. "He said it was because I was getting older or some shit. I dunno, I was really trying to ignore him."

"So your… Your parents, they're _okay_ with this?"

"Yeah, apparently. They're okay enough with it to buy me a new bed, that much is for sure."

Kyle frowned at the wall, absently chewing on a hangnail. "So they, what? They just, like, accepted it?"

"Well, yeah, I guess. I mean, I don't think they're _happy_ about the whole naked humping adventures, but they've not disowned me or anything."

"Why?"

"Why what?"

"Why did they just _accept_ it like that?"

"Because you're a good kid and I can't knock you up. Christ, I really don't know! I don't have any answers for you; it's not like _any_ of this makes any _sense_, Kyle!"

"Oh."

Frowning, Stan sat up, roughly rubbing the sleep from his eyes. His brain still wasn't awake, actually _thinking_ through the cotton clouding his mind still involved a fair but of effort. But something was trickling though. "Wait, are your parents, are they… Kyle, are they _not_ okay with this?"

"No, no. It's just… I-I don't know."

"Have… Have they said something to you?"

"No, nothing like that. It's more…" Exhaling, Kyle looked up, narrowing his eyes up at the ceiling. "They… They haven't even mentioned it Stan. I mean, like, not even an allusion, not _once_!"

"So?"

"So there's a fucking _poster_ superimposed across the front of my house! Surely we… We need to talk about that, surely we need to, like, discuss it, or at least _acknowledge _it or-or something!"

"Not necessarily. I mean, a least they're not _angry_ at you or anything."

Kyle pulled a face, shifting slightly. "At least if they were angry at me, they'd be acknowledging it. This awkward denial, the whole crying and avoiding eye-contact, I mean, dude, it's... It's something else." Kyle sighed, clutching his hands in his lap. Stan frowned, sitting up straighter, loosely crossing his arms across his chest. "They keep acting like nothing happened, they keep _ignoring_ it, _ignoring _me, _ignoring this_, like, like…"

"Like what?"

"Like I've really done something really _awful_, Stan."

"They're probably just in shock Ky. Christ, at least give them a day for it sink in before you begin to panic. You're probably just jumping the gun a bit, you know?"

"Dude, they were talking about moving . After you left, I heard them. They were discussing it in the kitchen."

Pursing his lips, Stan frowned, absently clutching at his nightshirt. "I'd bring you back, you know. If they tried that, I'd follow you to hell's end and bring you back. It's not like they can fix it, fix _any of this_, by running away. That's just _stupid_."

"I know. It wasn't _my_ idea." Kyle groaned, throwing himself back on the bed. Biting his lip, Stan suppressed a frown. "This is all Cartman's fault!"

"I know. Look, just, just don't worry. Everything's going to be alright."

"Fuck, no it's not! All the pictures, the banners and crap. All those fucking _posters_, it'll be weeks before all that shit get's cleared up. Christ, we've never going to live this down."

"It's going to be fine. Just, don't worry."

"Urgh, I just... I just want to _get_ _out_, I just want to _drive_, _leave_. I just, I don't want to be _here_ anymore Stan, not with them, not with _him_. I'm _sick_ of it, _sick_ of everything."

"Eleven months, Ky."

"What?"

"You've stuck it out for seventeen years; you've only got eleven more months to go. After graduation, you can go as far away as you like, you never have to see this town again. You can burn it to the ground for all anyone care."

Frowning slightly, Kyle bit the inside of his cheek. He was still flushed pink from the cold, the winter night snow. It was blowing up a fair storm now, Stan could hear the wind whining against his window, the pattering of snow against the glass. Kyle was wrong, sure, getting the glue and paper off the front of their houses would be a bitch, but all that confetti, all those fliers and banners, they wouldn't last two minutes in a real autumn storm. Come the morning, the evidence would be part-buried under a fresh foot of snowfall. It'd be forgotten, left sodden and abandoned, pushed to the back of everyone's minds.

"Then _we_ can go as far away as we like."

"I'm sorry?"

"Christ, we've come this far. We might as well go that bit further. We're out of this hell-hole _together_, Stan."

Smiling slightly, Stan arched his back, pressing his shoulders against his headboard, stretching a kink out of his neck. "Yeah, alright. Then _we_ can go as far away as we like." For a second, Stan just watched him, smiling slightly, squinting though the darkness. Kyle was sprawled out at the end of the mattress, coat still zipped up, scarf still tied, slush-covered boots roughly braced against the brand-new bedframe. Through the dimness of the night, the slight glimmer of the moonlight, the light shining though the clouds, through the gap in the curtains, Stan could just about make out the shape of his face, those high, regal cheekbones, his strong nose. His overly-bright eyes, wide and sad, scared, glimmering, colourless in the moonlight. Eyes that were watching him, fixed on him, cutting easily though the darkness.

Stan smiled, clearing his throat, glancing away. "Anyway, unlike you, little Chosen One, I have _church_ tomorrow. I need to _sleep_ Kyle."

"So, _sleep_ then. I'm not going to stop you."

"I gotta drive you back home first."

"I'm not going home."

"Kyle-"

"Don't _bother_. I'm not going home."

Groaning slightly, Stan rubbed his face, kneading his forehead with his fingertips. "Christ, you can be a stubborn little _bitch_ when you want to be."

"Go to hell."

"Well if you're not going to let me drive you home, at least take your coat off. Fuck, wriggling about like that, you're getting my bed all wet."

"Oh, _cry me a river_."

Snorting derisively, Stan threw a pillow at him.

* * *

><p>AN – Uurgh, awkward bridge. Don't worry, plot should start re- progressing soon, once I manage to throttle my writers block or something. And the story's nearly over. Not that that means anything, I mean, I keep saying that and it never actually gets any closer to ending. This'll be the death of me, I swear. Anyhoo, thank you for read-reading, is awesome. And super duper uber mega thankyou thankyou's for reviewing, is awesome and fluffy and warm and candyfloss. Loves loves lovely.

And Savannah, ew, yup, that really is pretty intolerable. And it's one way of really vamping up the whole repulsive-Cartman aspects of things, that's for sure =P

And AzyumiChan, nah, he's just happy Stan can't knock Kyle up. One less thing to worry about, at any rate. And nope =) That's pretty much exactly what I was aiming for with Wendy's characterisation, down to a tee. As for a Creek fanfic, it's not something I've ever tried writing before, so I don't quite know how it'll turn out, but when 'Carnival' is finished (whenever that'll be), I'll give it a go. It's always good to try new things =).


	21. Shelly Stole Your Car?

Kenny frowned, ramming his hands into the worn out, holy, pockets on his worn out, holy trousers. He really didn't want to be here, not today, not ever. He hated it, he hated his dad's stained, too big, bright white wedding tuxedo, he hated the badly vanished, dingy wood, he hated the dirty, claustrophobic confessional, he hated the eroded, limestone gargoyles, he hated Father Maxi, he hated the guilt and begging, the lies, and the _suits_. The pompous, unnecessary, stuffy fucking _suits_.

No, Kenny really didn't want to be here. He'd only come because his father had growled at him, because his mother had screamed at him, threatened him with eternal damnation, threatening to _cry_. She was really shaken up at the whole Stan and Kyle thing, everyone was. It'd left a weird feeling in the air, the whole fucking town was doing some kind of obligatorily balancing act, no-one was ever heard openly talking about it, the whole _thing _had been rendered verbally uncouth. Behind closed doors however, well, it was obvious no-one was talking about anything else. It'd die down soon, Kenny knew that much for sure, a week, a month, nobody'd care. But for now, the perfect fucking quarterback and the stompy litte Jew; it'd spread across the town like a virus, like bad fliers and cheap confetti.

Scoffing, Kenny scuffed his foot through the snow, kicking up chunks of ice and grit. It was only snowing lightly, only a few flakes, but it was bitterly cold and utterly miserable. He was waiting for his parents to finish talking to Butters's, discussing menial pleasantries, their faces set, everyone determined not to mention yesterday. Determined to rise above that, to pretend they're better then all the petty gossip. Even though everyone knew they weren't. No-one in this town was.

Frowning bitterly, Kenny turned away. He really wished he'd put up more of a fight, demanded he wasn't going to come. He didn't care how upset it made his mother; eternal damnation was underrated anyway. At least someone was listening to you down there. You make one mistake, one lie, one missed church session, and hey, he hears. There's nobody listening upstairs, no matter how desperate you are, no matter what you ask for, no matter how necessary, how menial, nobody cares. Nobody fucking cares.

Exhaling slightly, Kenny clutched his chest, rubbing the spot just above his heart. He felt heavy, heavy and empty. Angry, bitter, he felt like there was something wrong, really, really wrong. He felt heartbroken, like a falcon punch had just fractured all his ribs.

Glancing up, Kenny grimaced, narrowing his eyes though the splitting wooden doors, squinting to see through the dimness of the church. He could see Stan, sitting on the end of a pew, tucked away at the back of the church, posture slumped, shoulders hunched, head drooped. His parents were sitting next to him, about a foot away, their shoulders ridged and awkward, their expressions wide-eyed and tortured. All three of them silent, surrounded by wangst and misery. Dipping his head, Kenny bruised his hair out his eyes. Having spent a lifetime gazing moonily up at the poverty line, he knew how much it sucked, being the talk of the town, the one everyone talked about behind cupped hands. It really wasn't a nice experience. Exhaling, Kenny smiled slightly, slipping though the creaking doors.

"What the fuck's wrong with _you_?" Stan deadpanned him a look, Kenny rolled his eyes, dropping messily onto the cold wood next to him. "I mean aside from the whole carnival-outing-fucking thing. Christ, you look like someone offed your faggy mutt. It's not _that_ bad, it's just _paper_."

"I'm just tired." Kenny raised his eyebrows, gazing at him disbelievingly. Stan pulled a face, wrinkling up his nose. "Shelly stole my car."

"Shelly stole your car?"

"Yep. Shelly stole my car."

"Christ, how'd that happen?"

"I dunno. I woke up today and the keys were gone. Looked out the window, my car was gone too."

"How'd you know she took it?"

"Who else could it have been? Dude, my keys were on my _bedside table_! It was Shelly."

"Well, that sucks."

"Yep."

Exhaling, Kenny cracked his knuckles, leaning back against the wood. "On the bright size, no matter what she does to it, it's not like it can look any _worse_. If she bangs a enough dints into it, she might actually even it out. You never know, chances are she'll increase it's aesthetic appeal. She'd have to work damn hard to make it uglier."

"You didn't see what she did to the door?"

Kenny raised an eyebrow. "What did she do to the door?"

Stan shook his head, refusing to answer. "I bet she's going to torch it or something. She's a fucking _bitch_ like that."

"Just think of it as a new paint job. Black's a really classy colour, after all. It'll hide the scratches, and the mismatched body parts."

Stan narrowed his eyes, clutching his hands together. "You know Kenny, I'm really not in the mood for your wise-assery, not today."

Kenny snorted, tossing his head back. "Yeah, well me neither." He bit it out, his voice low and stinging. "But I just found out my two supposed best friends are fucking, and-" He swallowed hard, twisting his face, biting back the bitter jealously. He just wanted to punch Stan, he really just wanted to hurt him, to do _something _to him. "And they never even thought to let me fucking know. Forgive me for not being Miss Sympathetic America."

Sighing, Stan ran his hand through his hair, leaning forward. "Kenny, it was nothing personal. We… We had to keep it a _secret_."

"Why? Because life in South Park _just isn't dramatic enough for you_? You had to add a clandestine scandalous romance to boot up the _crazy_? Fuck me Stan!"

"No! Because… Because things _happen_ in this town Kenny! Stupid, retarded, mob things! I didn't want to do anything to provoke _it_, I didn't want to-to put _Kyle_ in any danger! Sometimes it's just easier to keep you head low until you can get the hell outta Dodge, yeah?" Stan exhaled, rubbing his eyes. "But hey, best laid plans of mice and men and all that fucking crap."

Pursing his lips angrily, Kenny averted his gaze. "Well, do try look on the bright side, you overdramatic dick. At least you get _waffles_ in an hour."

"No, I'm not going to brunch."

"Why? I always thought brunch was the only part of this shit that was vaguely tolerable. Especially for you guys, I mean, you lot actually get to _eat_."

"None of this bullshit is tolerable."

"Oh, do try not to be too optimistic, you wouldn't want to fucking hurt yourself!"

"Christ Kenny, I just don't want to be around this" he made a weak wristed gesture "these people any longer then I have to be. I just want to go _home_. I just want-I just want to _not_ be _here_ anymore!"

Kenny sighed, biting back the urge to kick him. "You never solved anything by running away. Sometimes you just got to stand your ground, suck it up, and be the goddamned hero."

"Not all of us want to be heroes Kenny. Maybe some of us just want to keep our heads low and get by. Besides, I don't want to leave Kyle alone for too long. He's a bit shaken by the whole... By _it_."

Kenny pursed his lips, lowering his head. "He'll be fine. Fuck Stan, he's not a _puppy_. He's not going to cry and piddle on the carpet if you leave him alone for too long."

"I'm never quite sure what he's liable to do when distressed. He gets a bit unpredictable when he's emotional."

"Yes; I had noticed." Kenny bit dryly. "But nevertheless, he'll be fine. He's hormonal, not stupid."

"I guess. It's just… I wish… It's… It's just not fair."

Kenny raised his eyebrows, blowing air into his cheeks. "Well, life ain't fair Stanny-boy. You'd should be used to it by now."

Stan just shrugged, his eyes glued to the stonework on the floor. Kenny just sighed, leaning back in the pew. The service was really fucking late starting, but that was nothing new. Father Maxi was hardly known for his dedication. He wasn't a _bad_ guy, he just wasn't a particularly good priest.

Frowning, Kenny narrowed his eyes towards the alter. Wendy was standing up at the front, dressed up in neat, fluffy lavender and pale creams, her arms crossed, a foul look twisting her face. Cartman was leaning over her, his dull, brown, custom made suit, bunching up depressingly, repulsively invading her space, a weird smile twisting his face. Kenny quirked the corner of his lip, wondering if Cartman still had his creepy little stalker-cave all wired up. He wondered if he was still watching her undress, and shower, listening to her every word. Crossing his arms, Kenny dimly pondered reporting Cartman to the police. It was a massively temping idea, but it'd never work. No matter what happened, Cartman always got away with it. And he actually sort of liked juvie. He liked to strut about, playing that he was some kind of kingpin. He always had been a very convincing actor.

"Have you talked to her yet?"

Stan blinked, glancing up. "What?"

"Wendy. You really sort of owe her a conversation. Have you talked to her yet."

"Not really. She came and shouted at me yesterday, I tried to apologise to her today, she wasn't having any of it."

"Well you sort of _were_ a supermassive dick to her."

Stan sighed. "I know."

"Have you talked to _him_ yet?" Stan blinked questioningly, Kenny pointed across the church. "You know, have you spoken too South Park's very own fascist epitome of assholeness?"

"No. I've been trying to avoid _that_. I'm just at a loss as to what I'm supposed to _do_, how I'm supposed to deal with _that_, I mean, it's just so-so… Christ, I think we should all just do that thing where we pretend he's dead. Just, just pretend he doesn't exist. Like everything's okay, because he doesn't exist. He might freak out and make us fruit baskets again."

"Not likely. He won't fall for that, not again. He's not _that _stupid."

Stan twisted his lips, pulling back his shoulders. "I beg to differ."

Across the church, Wendy suddely snapped, shoving Cartman back, storming away, down the isle, slamming through the doors, stomping though the grit and ice. Cartman just watched her leave, a weird expression murking across his face. After a few moments he blinked, shaking his head, blinking slightly. Gancing across, he caught Stan watching him, dark faced and angry. Bearing his teeth, Cartman swaggered down the isle, lumbering towards their pew. Stan cursed under his breath, shakily running his hands across his face.

Lumbering up, Cartman cocked a disgusting grin, leaning across the pew, almost smothering Kenny in his endeavour to invade Stan's personal bubble. Stan just glared at him, his mouth twisted angrily. "I gotta say Stanley, you certainly seem to have a _type_. First Wendy, now Kyle, it's just _bitchy_, _pathetic,_ _screechy,_ _holier-art-thous_ all the fucking way with _you_."

Stan clenched his fist. "Seriously Cartman, get out of my face."

"I mean, Jesus," Cartman didn't even blink, not missing a beat, "at lease Wendy was _aesthetically not hideous_, I mean, you can look at her and not feel _too_ nauseous. Fuck, I just don't know what you see in the ki-"

Stan was a laxed catholic. He didn't try to hide it. He blasphemed, he lied, he sinned, he broke all manor of commandments, he didn't respect his parents. He fucked other men. He just wasn't all that religious. But that didn't mean he didn't believe in God, it just meant he didn't really follow the bible. Kenny was surprised; usually a catholic, even a laxed catholic, drew the line at punching someone in a church, at drawing blood on holy ground.

But hey, people always have exceptions, especially when it comes to Cartman.

When near-as-damnit two bucks of quarterback decides to slam a fist into your face, he can cause quite a bit of damage. The entire church was silent, staring over their shoulders. Cartman was on the floor, clutching his face, whimpering and sobbing. Stan was on his feet, bent forwards slightly, swearing violently, his fist curled up against his chest, his face twisted in pain.

Kenny just blinked, tilting his head to the left.

* * *

><p>AN - Sorry sorry for the delay (no, it's not over, not just yet, it's just FrightFest on Film4 and I went to IKEA because I'm moving back into Studentland soon and I have no attention span and am easily distracted by thing and cannot process more then one thing at a time apparently, oy) but there're only two chapters left (I've planned them and everything so yay they should be out sooner then this one was eheh). Anyhoo, thank you thank you for reading, even though my has lag, is supercool. And booper major muches super duper awesome lovely thank yous for reviewing, is awesomefluffy soft candyfluff and makes me so write-friendly yay. Lovesloveslovelyloves :3

And Princess-of-Your-Doom95, damn, you kinda called it. Have a freshly baked kudos cookie =P

And Savannah, aye, sorrysorry, the redundancy is just a manifestation of silly temperamental writers block. As is the repeats. Daymn. Price of updating-as-I-go I guess. And don't worry, I 5p34k a L1tTl3 1337.


	22. Why Won't You Tell?

Stan left immediately after the pathetically lacklustre sermon, his head still bowed, his tail latched firmly between his legs. Kenny watched him go with pursed lips and crossed arms. He knew he was disappearing off to see Kyle, to go back to Kyle, to whimper about his little hurt hand to Kyle. Kenny however didn't managed to excuse himself from the brunch; his mother had been adamant he was to come, to traipse along with the herd, to attend the mandatory, post-church borefest, to make stilted, polite conversation about the weather or the Broncos, to talk about anything other then the hideously pink Stan-Kyle shaped elephant lurking in the corner. Kenny had tried, admittedly, rather weakly, to make a break for it, but his mother had held firm. He just didn't have the fight left in him to tell her where to stick it, not today. Exhaling, Kenny crossed his arms, propping his elbows up in the table. The horrible atmosphere, the dark, heavy, the forced politeness, it was still mugging up the air. It was claustrophobic, compressing , it was just tragic. And it was all Stan's fault, Stan and Cartman.

Kenny sighed, toying with his water. Butters was sitting next to him, silently working his way though two overly-crisp, neat little waffles. He'd tried politely to make conversation, asking Kenny how he was, stuttering some nonsense about the snow, but Kenny was having none of it. After a few bitten brush-offs, Butters had retreated, meekly turning his attention back to his chipped white plate.

Cartman had sat himself opposite them, his head low to the table as he inhaled a plate of pancakes, barely chewing as he gulped down huge bites, shovelling forkful after forkful straight down his gullet. Kenny winced, turning his head away. No matter how many times he'd seen him eat, he couldn't get used to it, it still nauseated him, jarring his stomach, forcing it to twist uncomfortably. Kenny was pretty sure Cartman did it on purpose: no one could be that disgusting accidently, no, they must have to put a conscious effort into it.

Still, as Kenny tilted his half-empty glass to the side, he had to concede Stan had done a good job. The left side of Cartman's face, his small brown eye,the base of his barely-visible cheekbone, it was swollen rather impressively, the angry red slowly fading to a dullish, unappealing mauve. He was still flushed slightly,his entire face marked with pink-tinged streaks, the tell-tale evidence left over from his embarrassingly babyish sobbing jag. Cartman had tried demanding his mom drove him to the hospital, adamant he needed immediate medical attention. Only the bribe of extra pancakes at brunch could calm him the fuck down.

Pursing his lips, Kenny tilted his head to the side, narrowing his eyes out the window. He was pretty sure Stan had broken Cartman's nose; the bridge was slightly crooked, the whole thing was engorged and angry, hued with a ugly shade of burgundy. Kenny wasn't quite sure if it had been Stan's intention, to break Cartman's nose, or if it had just been one hell of a lucky shot. Either way, Cartman had deserved it. After what he'd done, he deserved a hell of a lot more to boot.

Frowning slightly, Kenny toyed with a few stray droplets of water, smearing them angrily across the laminate table top, absently spelling out names, framing them with squiggly lines. Stan would be with Kyle by now, his eyes wide, his face flushed, his hand still red as he told him what happened, a blow by blow account of what had happened in church, who'd said what when, who said where what why. He'd tell him what Cartman said. He'd tell him what he said. He'd tell him Kenny did nothing. He'd tell him the remark. He'd tell him how he reacted. And Kyle was going to love him for it. He probably considered Stan's breaking of Cartman's nose to be most romantic thing anyone had ever done for anyone in the history of the entire world ever. It'd probably thrill the pants right off him. Not that Stan needed any help with de-panting Kyle, not if Cartman's handiwork was any judge of anything. Apparently Stan was very skilled at removing Kyle's trousers. It was just one of his many, many talents. Kenny just sighed, rubbing his face, shutting his eyes as he kneaded his eye sockets. The florescent lighting was giving him a headache, a dull pulsing throb pushing up against the back of his eyes, a haemorrhage threatening to happen. Kenny just didn't know how much more of this he could take.

Across the table, Cartman stood up, somewhat abruptly. His plate empty, his drink downed, the surrounding laminate tabletop was covered with the crumbs and debris that had successfully evaded his gluttonous esophagus. Without a backward word to anyone, he pursed his lips, turned on his heels, jammed his thigh against the table (accidently, it seemed, but Kenny wasn't convinced), before he stalked off through the diner, storming his massive girth out through the doors, and off down the snowy street. Butters called some good-hearted goodbye after his lumbering back, his mother called a simperingly-worded question, but Cartman just ignored them, waddling away as fast as his stumpy legs would take him.

It was a good half-hour before anyone else decided to drift away, before people started leaving with clasped knuckles and hushed faces, whispering to each other behind the backs of their hands, shooting lingering glances at the Marsh's, and at him. After Craig Tucker's dad glowered at Randy Marsh, shooting him a filthy look, Kenny rudely excused himself, pulling himself to his feet whilst his mother's back was turned, making a break for it, forcing his way between the tables, forcing his way out into the snow.

He really didn't know what to do, where to go, he just didn't have the slightest clue where he wanted to be. Not at home, under his fathers drunken, redneck gaze, not with anyone, not with _people_, not now, not whilst they were wearing those angering, knowing, Stan-Kyle looks. Kenny bit the inside of his cheek, angrily crushing an abandoned cup with the hole-ridden sole of his boot. Ordinarily, when he felt like this, he'd just go see Kyle, he'd hang out with Kyle, he'd spend some friendship time, some special bonding time, some rarer then gold dust _alone_ time with _Kyle_. But that wasn't really a viable move right now. Kyle was with Stan, no doubt, it was Kyle and Stan who'd be sharing that special bonding time now. It was always Stan and Kyle who'd shared that special bond. It was always Stan, it was always fucking _Stan_.

For a while Kenny just wandered the streets like a vagrant, absently kicking stray pieces of trash thought the snow, absently glaring at the sidewalk. The debris from Cartman's carnival would take months to clear, the trash left behind, the banners and flags still hanging limply from the streetlights, the fliers still pasted up on any available surface. And the acrid pink confetti, trampled through the snow, mulched together with the mud and ice, whipped up into slush. Sure, the winter snow would bury it eventually, blanket it away underneath inches of icy whiteness, but come summer I'd all melt, and there the debris would be, the mulched fliers and the telling plastic cups. Surely it would be better to get it out of the way now, to clean it up and away. At least that way you wouldn't have to face it all again come the summer. At least that way Kenny wouldn't have to face this again come summer.

Hours and hours later, pretty much half a day later, when the sun was setting with a blood red glow, when the wind had became painfully biting, Kenny finally stopped. His legs were aching from the walking, his feet and hands numb from the cold. Kenny was sure he'd walked for miles, just walked round and round South Park, up and down the highstreet, passing Kyle's house, now sporting no poster, but boasting a badly damaged veneer, past Cartman's house, past Wendy's house, her poster whited out with still-tacky-to-the-touch housepaint, temporarily hidden behind a streaky façade, past Bebe's house, the Cotswolds house, his house, _Stan's _house. Past Stan's poster, the only poster still in tact, the corners fraying slightly, strips torn off, but the evidence still superimposed up there, broadcasting it to the world, glaring and unavoidable.

Kenny just tried to ignore it, forcedly blocking it out of his mind. He busied himself tearing down every last one of Cartman's fliers, destroying them, shredding them into mulch. He'd deluded himself that perhaps, perhaps if he destroyed the evidence, he could pretend like it wasn't really true, like it was all fake, lies and nothingness, that it hadn't really happened. That it was all a bad dream, and that Kyle was still fair game. That there was still a fight to be had yet.

Inhaling sharply, Kenny blinked. He was outside Cartman's front door, shivering on his doorstep. He didn't know what he was doing here, he just _was_ here, he didn't really have a plan at this point. Cursing slightly, Kenny briskly kicked at the door a few times, crossing his arms against his chest as he waited for someone to answer. At least here he had the option of punching Cartman himself, he could top up Stan's handiwork, even out the panda eyes. He could try to cheer himself up that way. Besides, it'd be really easy to hurt him, he just had to aim for his nose. After another few kicks, and a few more bitten curses, Cartman's mom answered, smiling faintly as she let him passed, as Kenny croaked out some forced, not-quite polite 'thank you'.

Cartman was in his basement, his piggy eyes still glued to the monitors, his hands clutched together in front of him. Kenny just frowned, narrowing his eyes as he peered though the banisters, lightly padding down the cold, concrete stairs. Cartman hadn't heard him come in; he didn't hear him descend the staircase, he didn't heat him brush across the concrete. He was too preoccupied with the screens, too busy watching, still watching Wendy, watching her flit from room to room, a pixelated figure, a blurry shadow of the real thing. Cartman had holed himself up, down in the basement, so he could continue to spy on _Wendy_.

"Dude, this is getting really creepy now. You've had your revenge. It's _over_."

Cartman jumped, twisting awkwardly in the chair. Kenny tilted his head. His mom must have taken him to the hospital sometime, either that or called a doctor round. Someone had tried to bandage up Cartman's nose, the swollen red monstrosity, the dappled blue bruise, now contrasted nicely against a fluffy white bandage. A bandage that really drew attention to the damage. Pulling a face, Kenny looked away. Kyle was going to positively cream himself when he saw that tomorrow.

Cartman flushed slightly, angrily crossing his arms across the chest. "What the fuck are you doing here, po'boy?"

Kenny shrugged, shaking his head. "Why the fuck are you still watching Wendy?"

"That's none of your business ghetto rat! What I do is none of your business!"

"You've had your revenge, it's time to leave her alone now. Fuck, if you're not careful, you'll find yourself hurled back in juvie." Kenny narrowed his eyes, walking up to the monitors, peering at the static-marred screens. Wendy was reading in the living room, curled up in an armchair. Her parents were sitting across the room, talking quietly, watching TV. CNN, by the sound of it. "Fuck, this whole CCTV thing, what you're doing, you must be breaking all kids of fucking laws. They might even put you on some kind of list this time."

"Like I give a _fuck_. I do what I want!" Cartman huffed his chest up slightly, swatting Kenny away from the screens. "You look like hell, food stamp, and not just in that sickly, malnutritioned way you usually look like hell. You look like you've seen a fucking _ghost_ or something. What's happened? Did your pigsty of a house finally collapse under the weight of it's own ghettoness or something?"

"Oh, ha ha. No."

Cartman narrowed his eyes, leaning back in his chair. The screws groaned in protest as his bulk rested against them. "Well, what the fuck's wrong? Why are you here, you know, _bothering_ me?"

Kenny bit his lip, turning his head away. Tatty boxes of crap were stacked against one of the walls, labelled with Cartman's mom's neat little handwriting. Squinting slightly, Kenny could just about make out a couple of the labels; Christmas decorations, Easter decorations, maternity clothes, art supplies, spare crack pipes, Eric's old toys, Eric's old clothes, it was pretty much just the same-old, same-old. Clearing his throat, Kenny looked away. "Cartman, why did you… Why did you have to involve _us-_involve _them_? Couldn't you have just, you know, just done something to _Wendy_? Why involve Kyle?"

"Is that what's upsetting you?" Kenny didn't answer, his eyes fixed on the floor. Cartman wrinkled his nose. "_Why_? What those fags do has no bearing on you. As far as I'm concerned, this really is the best thing that could have happened."

Kenny's eyebrows shot up. Cartman sighed, twisting round in his chair, glancing over his shoulder, looking back to the monitors. Wendy was still tucked up in her armchair, reading quietly. "They can't _breed_ this way Kenny. Survival of the fittest, natural selection, all that crap. At least this way the Jew curse and the pussy genes remained contained, they won't infect another generation. They've chlorined themselves out the gene pool, their inadequacies will die out, just like nature intended."

"What about IVF?"

"Oh, pur-lease. Like any bitch is going to carry _their _hideous lovechild. Give me a break, the sheer unholy, godlessness of it would probably kill anyone who tried."

"Well whatever, you should have left Kyle out of it. This really had nothing to do with him."

"What is your obsession with that hideous Jew Kenny? Seriously? Fuck, you pay him way too much attention. You just have to try ignore it. If you ignore it, it'll get the message and fuck off. You don't keep _feeding_ it. Fuck, no wonder your house is so infested. You really have no idea how to deal with vermin, do you?"

Kenny sighed, narrowing his eyes. "He's not the one I want to fuck off Cartman. He's not the manipulative, creepy _dick_."

Cartman shrugged, shifting in his chair. "Christ Kenny, you've been miserable all weekend. I didn't do anything to _you_. You should be _happy_, there was a carnival. A _free_ carnival, a carnival even your poor ass could afford. Stop acting like I shot your puppy."

Kenny laughed bitterly, crossing his arms across his chest. His mind was going too fast, a mixture of sadness, exasperation, exhaustion, and anger. He was so _angry _at all this. Thinking through the mess of emotions was becoming a bit of an effort. "You shouldn't have done it, Eric. But you _did_. You just couldn't _let it be_, you just couldn't _leave him alone_, just once, you should have _left it all alone_."

"Christ, stop being such a martyrous little bitch, I know you like to play the fucking hero, but Kyle deserved it. He took it in the arse voluntarily, no one forced him to. He _asked_ for all this. Fuck, you keep getting this much sand in your vagina, people are going to think you _wuv_ him or something."

Kenny chocked on his own spit, jerking his head away as he crossed his arms, his cheeks flushing slightly. It hit too close to home, that one had hit way, way to close to home. Cartman's eyes widened. Kenny had tried to stifle the reactions, but Cartman had caught them. He'd always had an eye for weakness. "Fuck no. Not you, not you _too_! Oh,_ Jesus_ _fuck_!"

"No, it's nothing. Shut up Cartman!"

"Oh God! It's black Jew magic. That's how he's doing it. Fuck" Cartman spun round in his chair, resting his elbows on the table "it's his black Jew voodoo, he's manipulated you both, cursed you into wanting his hideous Jewish body. Oh fuck, he's probably planning to curse me next! I bet he's saving me 'till last"

Kenny inhaled, clutching his arms across his chest. "Just, just shut the fuck up Cartman, shut the fuck up or I finish the mess Stan started on your face! It's not black Jewish magic, it's nothing! And nobody would _ever _want you! So just _shut up_!"

"You don't _like _him. It's just... Your malnutrition is giving you delusions. Your ghetto-ass sofa gave you syphilis and it's rotted your brain."

"I'm not _deluded_! Cartman, I know what I'm _feeling_. You don't know shit! Just-Just shut up!"

"Oh, no you _don't_! Fuck, I'm betting you're just feeling lonely, and fell for the idea of not being lonely. You can't _possibly_ like Kyle, not like _that_! Dude, you have fucking _eyes_! Just fucking _look_ at him! Fuck, I mean, he's fucking from _New Jersey_, he's a fucking _daywalker_." Cartman was waving his arms to an empty space of air next to them, as though willing Kenny to create and condemn a mental Kyle-shaped effigy. Kenny just crossed his arms, frowning darkly. "You can't possibly _like _him! Fuck Kenny, don't be _stupid_."

"I'm not being stupid! _Shut up_! Fuck, you think I asked for this, for _any_ of this?" Kenny laughed bitterly, shutting his eyes against the threat of tears. "Who'd have thought that after all the shit you did when we were kids, after all your cross dressing, after your quests to get Butters and Kyle to give you fucking _blowjobs_, after _Ben Affleck_, who'd have thought that you'd be the only one of us who'd _actually_ turn out straight?"

"I'm not-I… I won't tell Kenny."

Kenny swallowed, opening his eyes. "Why? Fuck, this must be like Christmas for you! You get to ruin everyone's lives in one fell swoop! You get to be the dicl who dicked them all!"

"_I won't tell_."

Kenny frowned, narrowing his eyes suspiciously, pursing his lips, squaring his frame. He was shivering slightly, he wasn't quite sure why. "Why won't you tell?"

"Because…" Cartman twisted his face, looking away, watching the screens out of the corner of his eyes. Kenny just needed to shut-up. This wasn't supposed to happen, this couldn't happen, it could mess everything up, this had to stop. He had a plan, and no-one could know. Cartman knew why no-one could know. But Kenny didn't know why no-one could know. Kenny was never going to know why no-one could know. Kenny just had to shut up, this just had to not happen. "Because, as much as it sucks, you're…" Cartman pursed his lips, "You're my super best friend, Kenny."

Kenny blinked, before shutting his eyes and groaning slightly. "Oh Christ, now I just feel fucking _suicidal_!"

* * *

><p>AN – Dear God, chapter, I swear it was trying to kill me! Sorry sorry I'm being slow slow, the chapter just wouldn't _end_. It kept on going! It's all just resolution, the resolution kept on resolving, it wouldn't stop resolving, and there's still more resolving to do! Oh bugger, it just wouldn't stop! [On the plus side, I think this might indicate my writers block might have cleared up. Ohyay.] Still only one more chapter left (yay for finishing things! Awwh if you were actually enjoying this seemingly never-ending, plotless story for some unfounded reason). Anyhoo thank you thank you for sticking with it and read reading, superawesomemega thank you thank you fluffy candyfloss thank yous doe reviewing, is so awesome and lovely and warm and whippedstuff loves love lovely. :3

And Princess-of-Your-Doom95, next chapter is last last chapter. Don't worry, your question had nothing to do with it, it's all been planned out for a few weeks. It's finally coming to an end. And don't worry, I haven't forgotten about resolving the Shelly/Stan's car thing =P.

And Jugendfrei, metaphorically speaking, Cartman did just have something heavy dropped on him. I'm sure Kenny's blundering confession hit him like a ton of bricks. (OhGodbadpun shootme.)

And TheHatterFromUnderland, I'm actually really glad you like my rendition Cartman, he's the one I find hardest to write. I'm a little bit terrified of trying to approach him. Still, the last chapter is pretty much about him, so I'll pray I don't ruin it right at the end or something equally as errgh-ish.


	23. Once More Into The Breach, Eh?

They were sitting in the school parking lot, blearily watching the other students' mill past them, blearily biding their time until first bell.

"So what? She just brought it back? Just like that?"

Stan shrugged, absently toying with the steering wheel, ghosting his fingers across the scratched plastic, following the ridges and bumps of the uncomfortable, misplaced handgrips. "Yeah, she brought her back, just like that."

"Weird."

"I know, right?"

"And she didn't say anything about it? Absolutely nothing?"

"She grunted something, and left. That was it."

"Huh. Well at least she didn't sell it for scrap or anything. At least you got it back."

Stan inhaled, arching his back slightly, pressing himself back against the seat, stretching out a kink in his shoulder. "Yeah, at least she brought her back."

Kyle just pulled a face, before shrugging, completely at a loss as to what he should say. Stan just smiled at him, tensing his fingers, gripping the steering wheel, pressing his palms against the cool plastic handgrips, slipping his fingers between the grooves. Shelly'd brought his car back, she'd brought it back, just like that. Stan'd already gone to bed when she'd come back, he'd been lying awake in the dark, humming quietly as he mapped out shapes on his ceiling, worrying silently in the dark. She'd just stalked into his room, handed him back his keys, grunted out an apology, and left. Stan had quietly thanked her, he'd watched her leave, then he'd torn out of bed, rammed on his shoes, and jumped down the stairs.

The dingy blue, the defaced panel, Shelly's scratches, the entire drivers-side _door_, it was gone. In its place was a bright, Kelly green replacement. A surprisingly shiny, surprisingly dent-free, surprisingly new-looking, Kelly green replacement. Stan had no idea where Shelly had gone to find a replacement that fast, he had no idea if it was brought, borrowed or stolen, he had no idea who she'd paid to change it, to take off the old one and screw on the new, he had no idea how much it had cost, how far she'd had to drive, he had no idea. She gave him back his car, scrubbed clean of what she'd done, clean and shiny, and sporting a full tank of gas. And that was that, the gesture, it was a sign that what had happened had happened, it was a sign that they weren't ever to mention it again. An apology, an admission of guilt, and it was over. Just like that, it was over. It was all okay.

Stan blinked, hazily shaking his head. Butters had wandered in front of the windshield, glancing up, he'd held his hand up, greeting them with a shaky, lame little wave. Stan returned it, half-assed and half-heartedly. Kyle just smiled thinly, acknowledging the gesture.

Exhaling, Stan stretched, leaning across the hand break, gently tapping Kyle on the knee. Kyle started slightly at the contact, glancing quickly down at Stan's hand. He'd spent the entire drive worriedly biting at his lip, worriedly staring into space, worriedly latching his arms firmly across his chest, worriedly trying to comfort himself. Stan just sighed, gripping his knee reassuringly, gently patting him, wordlessly comforting him.

"C'mon Ky, it'll be alright. Once more into the breach, eh? Once more into the breach." Kyle just sighed, running his hand across his face, muttering out a volatile, muffled curse. Stan just watched him, the corner of his lip quirked, quirked into a worried smile. "C'mon Ky, it won't be that _bad_."

"Oh, yeah? What makes you so _sure_?"

"Because it's South Park dude. Shit like this happens every week. This week, yeah, everyone'll have their panties in a twist over me and you. Next week, Mecha-Streisand'll be stomping across the town or something. The week after that, my dad'll be initiating another riot. That's just how it is. You know what they say."

Kyle frowned slightly, absently fidgeting in his seat. Stan was slowly edging his hand up his thigh, sneaking his fingertips closer and closer to Kyle's waist. Kyle could feel him, he knew what he was doing, he was ridged against it, nervous, nervous of the surroundings, but Stan was humming at him, reassuring him, willing him not to try to stop it.

"They say a lot of things Stan."

Stan smiled, absently tracing his fingertips under Kyle's t-shirt, biting his lip as he ghosted his hands up and down, tracing the curve of Kyle's waist, his stomach, dancing his fingertips across soft skin. "Shit happens Ky. Every week, something new. This week, yeah, people know. People have seen. Our parents have seen. But hey, guess what?"

Kyle was arching himself against Stan's touch, stretching slightly, pressing himself against Stan's fingertips. Around them, people were still milling past, milling towards the school, barely even glancing at the beat-up old Chevvy, not paying the slightest bit of attention to what was happing inside. "What?"

"The world didn't end."

Kyle raised his eyebrows, thrumming slightly as Stan ran his fingertips round his side, tracing them up the curve of his back, tracing them down low, dangerously low. "I never thought for a second it would. You were the one getting your panties in a twist about it. To be honest, this is really all _your_ fault anyway. If you'd never fucked about with Wendy, if you'd just not, Cartman would've never found out about us. If you'd not been so desperate to keep it a secret, it'd still _actually_ be a secret."

"I know Ky. Irony, eh? But hey, it's Cartman dude. He'd have found out about it, about _us_, sooner or later. He'd have done all this sooner or later. That's just the sort of bastard he is."

Kyle sighed, shifting slightly, positioning himself, positioning himself into Stan's touch. "I guess so."

Stan blinked, tilting his head, checking his watch. "C'mon Ky. We're going to be late."

Thrumming slightly, Kyle just pressed himself against Stan's touch, willing him not to stop. "I really don't give a shit."

"Awh, don't be like that. Just wait 'til you see Cartman's face. I'm sure that'll cheer you up."

"Oh God I hope so."

"Well if it doesn't, just let me know, I'll willingly punch him again for you."

"I don't need you to go around punching people for me Stan, I'm more then capable of punching them myself, you know."

Smiling slightly, Stan dipped his head, slowly tracing his fingertips up and down, following the slight curve of Kyle's arched back, tracing his hand across Kyle's soft, warm skin. He was tracing his other hand across Kyle's collar bone, he was leaning over the gear stick, over the handbrake, he was leaning closer and closer, sneaking himself closer and closer. Kyle was watching him, watching him with those eyes, those knowing, dangerous eyes. "Trust me, I know. But my offer still stands. If it'll cheer you up, I swear, I'll punch Cartman every day 'til the day he dies. I could make a routine out of it. Or I could do it randomly, I could surprise him with it."

"You'd get yourself arrested."

"It'd be worth it."

"Would it?" Stan was only inches away, their lips dangerously close, hovering, teasing. Everything about him, his scent, Kyle, it was invading him, willing him on, captivating him.

"It'd all be worth it."

Someone slammed their hand against the bonnet, causing Kyle to start violently, causing Stan to jump back, to recoil away from Kyle like he'd just been bitten. Kenny was watching them though the windshield, his face dark. He was gesturing at them, mouthing at them, tapping his wrist, tapping and imaginary watch. Exhaling, Stan ran his hands through his hair, groaning slightly, flipping Kenny the bird though the scratched sheet of glass. Next to him he could feel Kyle fidgeting, swearing bitterly as he clicked open the dented, beat-up Chevvy door.

xxx

xxx

xxx

Wendy spent the day with a face like thunder, silently ignoring anything and everyone, angrily snapping back at anyone stupid enough to ask her how she was, to ask her if she was okay. Most of the student body, all her friends, they cut her a wide berth, pointedly staying out of her way, pointedly keeping their heads low, their gazes averted. Wendy was bloody terrifying when she was angry; and no-one was willing to put themselves at the mercy of her wrath.

Well, no-one except for Cartman. He pointedly took his seat at the start of business class. She pointedly ignored him. He pointedly started to dig at her. She pointedly ignored him all lesson, sitting curled in her chair, her back arched towards him, her brows dipped into an angry, angry glower. He pointedly tried to provoke her, asking her biting questions, simperingly asking her how she was, how she'd been, what she'd done over the weekend, winding her up tighter and tighter, pushing his luck further and further.

She did a good job of ignoring him, of ignoring his taunts, she was desperate not to give him a rise. She did a good job of keeping her temper checked, of keeping it all pushed down, of smothering all her rage. She was irritating him, irking him, her solidarity, her silence, the way she turned her back, ignoring him, it was making him itch, winding him up, he wanted her to react, he needed her attention, he needed her to _respond_. He needed her to talk to him. But Wendy was determined not to; she was determined not to get angry, not in front of Cartman, not in front of Cartman, not in front of the class, not in front of _Kyle_.

So she remained icy and silent, her back turned, her temper in check. She didn't respond to Cartman's mocking, she didn't respond to anything. She spent the entirety of business class silent and subdued. She didn't say one word, not one word, the entire hour they were working.

So Cartman did the only thing he could think to do. He jarred her books to the floor at the end of the lesson, he pencils, her everything. He watched the classroom empty, he watched her gather her stuff off the floor, her cheeks pink with rage. And he cornered her, he cornered her after the lunch bell had rung, one arm braced against the doorway, one against the wall, his massive bulk blocking the door. He cornered her in the empty classroom. He couldn't let her leave, not without getting a rise out of her. He couldn't let her leave.

Wendy just sighed, crossing her arms, angrily tapping a narrow, black, patented leather shoe. Angrily inhaling sharply. Angrily narrowing her eyes up at him. She had to admit Stan had done a good job, a damn good job, he'd really got Cartman good. The bandages, the bruising, the swelling, it looked truly painful, it looked like it'd really, really _hurt_. Like it still really, really hurt. She could see why Kyle had taken such relish in it, why he'd been so overjoyed when he first saw it. If Stan had hit Cartman that hard to defend her honour, she'd probably have enjoyed it too, she'd have relished it, she'd have shown her gratitude in the same overzealous, sickening way.

But Stan hadn't, he'd hit Cartman because of Kyle, to avenge Kyle, it to defend Kyle's somewhat unsalvageable honour. Wendy pursed her lips, lowering her head, clutching her arms across her chest. He'd done it all for Kyle. Everything, it had all been because of goddamn fucking _Kyle_.

"Cartman, just… Just let me out."

Exhaling Cartman braced himself, stubbornly shaking his head. "No."

"Cartman, just let me go. Just _leave me alone_. Just leave me the _fuck_ alone."

Pursing his lips, Cartman looked over her shoulder, narrowing his eyes out the window. He needed to get her to rise, he needed to push it, to get her to speak, to snap, he needed to finish this off properly. He needed her to talk to him. All this silence and moping, it wasn't right. He needed her to fight, to snap, to be _angry_. To be _Wendy_.

"You really have no right to be upset about this Wendy. Tit for tat, that's how it goes. An eye for an eye, a tooth for a tooth. You _asked_ for it, for all _this_. You _deserved _it."

Wendy stared at him, her eyes wide, irate, subdued and disbelieving. "I _deserved _it?"

"You deserved it. All of it."

"How could I-What-What did I do, what could I have possibly _done_ to deserve this?"

"I told you, I told you to do the report on Ingvar Kamprad. None of this would have happened if you've just _shut your face _and listened to me!"

Wendy just stared at him, her mouth open, her eyebrows raised. "Seriously? You did all this, you fucked over all those people, all that mess, your only _friends_, you did all that, all the fucking _confetti_, you did all that, all that just because-just because I wouldn't let you write the report on _Ingvar fucking Kamprad_?"

Cartman pursed his lips. "I told you Wendy, no-one fucks with me and gets away with it. I told you."

"Oh yeah?" Wendy felt her stomach jar, the twisting, knotting anger. "Well congratu-fucking-lations! You spent an obscene amount of money, you've pissed off the only people who can _tolerate_ having you around, you outed my boyfriend, all for what? All because you got an _F_? All so you could _humiliate_ me? Well whoop-de-_fucking_-do, goal achieved! _You won_! I hope you're fucking _happy_!"

Cartman frowned, biting the inside of his cheek. This victory, everything about this victory, it was very quickly beginning to take on a weird feeling, a weird, jarring feeling. "Ex-boyfriend."

"What?"

"He's not your boyfriend anymore. He's your ex-boyfriend. He's Kyle's _boyfriend_ now."

"God, you're such a fucking _dick_."

Pulling a face, Cartman looked away, jerking his head violently to the left. It was infuriating, she was infuriating, everything about her, the way she acted, the way she dressed, that pompous, ridged way she _stood_, the tone of her _voice_,the way she _talked_, the peaks and inflictions, the syllables she emphasised, it really got under his skin. It really _irked_, irked him to the point of distraction, irked him to the point of _irritation_, irked him to the point of _pain_. Cartman frowned, angrily averting his eyes. He didn't know how to stop it, how to stop _her_, how to stop her being so _her_, so irritating and annoying, so skin itchingly _exasperating_.

It was really making him crawl, making him tense, all those nights, the fortnight he'd spent watching her undress, watching her sleep, watching her eat and talk and read and write, watching her do her homework, watching her call Stan, it was the fortnight he'd spent watching her live her pathetic, worthless life, it was surrounding him, pressing against him, trapping him. The way she was watching him, those narrowed, angry eyes, it was enclosing him, it was all so claustrophobic, so painful, so, so fucking _wrong_.

No, Cartman didn't know what to do. So he did the only thing he could think to do. He lunged for her, he grabbed her shirt, and he forced his lips against hers, he forced his mouth over hers, he pressed their faces together, jarring her nose against the bandages on his face, wincing, forcing a kiss through the pain. Wendy made some terrified choking gasp, her hands immediately on his shoulders, desperately attempting to shove him back, shove him away. Cartman tensed his jaw, fighting against her shock, fiercely attempting to force his tongue into her mouth.

And they were struggling, Cartman attempting to force himself closer, Wendy attempting to fight herself free. And Cartman was overpowering her, and they were struggling. And then Wendy got a good kick in, a damn good kick, and Cartman staggered back, clutching his crotch, bent double, groaning, whimpering, whimpering against the pain. And she just stared at him, her hands clasped over her mouth, a look of abject horror, a look of sheer disgust, scrawled openly across her face.

And she left, swearing violently, cursing bitterly, she told him never to touch her again, she threatened him, and she left, storming angrily out into the hallway, leaving Cartman alone, whimpering pathetically, bent double in the empty classroom. Bent double to nurse his wounds alone.

* * *

><p>AN – Et bein. Fin. C'est fini. And so it ends, and so it's over (and so _No One Ever Said That Life Was Fair_ begins). Thank you thank you to all who stuck through it, I hope it was worth it, I hope you enjoyed it. Mega uber muchesmuches thank you thank you's too all who reviewed it, I swear I'd have chucked the bucket halfway though if it wasn't for the lovely, lovely reviews (because OhGodIhatethisstorysosomuch). So thank you, thank you, thank you, so brilliantly wonderfully fluffy sparkly pillow thank yous for the reviews. Loves loves lovely amazingball loves.

And I shall be back, when, I'm not to sure. But as aforementioned afewchaptersback, I shall be back with a Creek story for a change. I have no idea how it'll turn out or what it'll be, but hey. C'est la vie, such is the fun in life.

Adieu, lovelies. 3


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